


I too have been covered with Thorns

by The_Dancing_Walrus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cultural Differences, Dorian Has Issues, Elvhen Empire, Elvhenan, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Feels, Fen'Harel - Freeform, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, Internalized Homophobia, Kink Meme, M/M, Multiculturalism, Rare Pairings, Slavery, Slow Burn, So does Solas, Worldbuilding, and Tevinter's culture of homophobia, but he tries, have them all my treat, in the Anderfels, is a git, no Solas is still an abolitionist, punitive tattooing, seriously there's a map and everything, so much world building, the Anderfels is now Ethiopia, the Elvhen Empire never fell AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 58,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6975892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Dancing_Walrus/pseuds/The_Dancing_Walrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate Thedas where the Elvhen Empire never fell but waned Dorian Pavus is captured on the Arlathan border. Rescued by an 'Agent' of the Dread Wolf and transported to his stronghold in the Anderfels Dorian has a choice- Allow himself to be ransomed and return to the safety of Tevinter or take a risk and remain in the Rebel God's fort which offer freedoms the Imperium would never permit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Dorian has the worst day of his life

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably warn you that this starts at rock bottom and things get less painful/panicked from here. 
> 
> I'd also advise looking at notes at the end of chapters, they'll have translations of all relevant languages plus a little bit of my thought process for some of the world building/additional sources. I tend to fill out Elvhen with either Hindi or Sanskrit, this is to do with how I interpret the canon, I think Elvhen and Indian ideas seem to mesh quite well. I've filled out Ander with words from all over the place but mostly Amharic. My tying the Anderfels with Ethiopia has little to do with what canon shows of the culture and a lot to do with what canon shows of the geography.
> 
> The kink meme prompt was short and simple: 'The Elven Empire didn't fall but they are in constant war with the Tevinter Imperium. Dorian is captured during a raid and is given as an offering to the Gods. Fen'Harel is the one that accepts him.' 
> 
> There will not be any non-con or coercion in this story.

“I want you to laugh, to kill all your worries, to love you, to nourish you.

Oh sweet bitterness, I will soothe you and heal you.  
I will bring you roses.  
I too have been covered with thorns.”

Rumi

 

 In which Dorian has the worst day of his life  


 

Once, it felt like a lifetime ago, Dorian thought he’d reached rock bottom in Minrathous running away from what was bound to be the last school his father could find. A handful of years later and he thought he’d found it again, further down, while he was locked in his room in Qarinus.

 

Then he’d escaped his father, joined the army-

 

And found it still lower in an Arlathan cell.

 

He’d been there a dozen days in the same ragged clothes he’d been captured in and watched while the other men in his unit had been dragged away in ones and twos.

 

They’d not returned.

 

He’d tried at first to find out what had happened to them and he didn’t know whether the guards understood Tevene but neither Dorian nor the soldiers had understood the Elvhen they’d shouted back. The guards had trees carved on their faces, half black, half white and Aelius-

 

_Who they’d taken last, who had kicked and screamed and swore until they’d cracked his head against the bars of Dorian’s cell-_

 

Aelius had thought that that was Elgar’nan rather than Mythal. It had sent fear through them all like a spell because Mythal traded back prisoners sometimes and men with her markings on their faces sometimes managed to stumble west over the boarder to home-

 

But no one with Elgar’nan’s marks ever did.

 

-

 

They’d kept him chained. Heavy, fused metal cuffs that kept his wrists crossed in front of him. They rubbed and pinched at his skin. They constricted his wrists when he held his hands up so that his hands went cold and numb and their full weight rested on the top of his thumbs when he held his hands down, making it feel like they were being levered off.

 

But the collar was worse.

 

He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, aside from dense and metallic. He knew it hurt him. When he tried to cast spells, even harmless prayer spells, it sucked the energy from him and paid him with pain.

 

On the first day he’d tried to push himself forward, past what the collar did. He’d tried to cast fire at the door until his head throbbed and his chest burnt and his nose bled.

 

He’d tried again the next day.

 

And the next.

 

He’d tried, finally, to use his own pain, fear and the blood that had dried over his face and the effort had left him unconscious for three hours.

 

And then there was nothing he could do but wait.

 

Wait while the rest of his unit vanished and-

 

Dorian had never really been a religious man, but if ever there was a time to pray-

 

It had ended up breaking him in a way the simple terror of being captured couldn’t-

 

He’d tried to call Zazikel and for a moment the rhythm of the words he’d been repeating all his life had given him peace. But at the tiniest whisper of magic the collar-

 

He’d stopped and sucked in a deep ragged breath. He tried to keep himself calm. There were other prayers but-

 

But he didn’t know any without magic. Except-

 

He’d swallowed air, lifted his hands to rub at his eyes with his knuckles. He’d wondered if he was truly that desperate and then why he was even questioning it when it was clear he was.

 

They were only words. They might-

 

Dorian made it through the first verse to Andoral steadily but by the fourth he faltered and at the sixth he’d known he’d have to stop or cry and had chosen to stop.

 

They were only words. He was an Altus, Dorian of House Pavus-

 

He never thought he’d need to call on the God of Slaves.

 

-

 

He didn’t fight when they finally came for him. Fear, despair, the collar, they’d all eaten away at him until all he could do was stare at the guards dull-eyed and allow them to drag him away. They took him up through the temple to a raised platform which over looked the road outside, like a pulpit or an executioner’s block.

 

They’d thrown him to his knees and announced something in loud, clear and utterly indecipherable Elvhen to the disinterested crowd below. It was…formality, ritual though the significance of it was completely lost on Dorian.

 

The second verse of Andoral’s litany came unbidden to his mind: asking for the mercy of Masters.

 

The knife-ears didn’t practice blood sacrifice. They didn’t. He was almost entirely sure of it.

 

The guards’ pronouncements reached a natural pause and as the silence stretched they gazed out over the crowd.

 

And then someone answered.

 

Dorian closed his eyes. He’d been sold. He’d been-

 

Oh Gods above the elves _tattooed_ their slaves’ _faces!_

 

He was fighting before he could think any further than that. And he knew it was pointless: even if he’d miraculously fought them off with no magic and chained hands, a single human in a city of elves he’d never be able to hide-

 

But they were going to _tattoo his face._

 

So he kicked and screamed while the guards cursed and beat him until they could drag him away again.

 

-

 

They lifted him, struggling and shrieking on to a low table and strapped him down, folding his arms up over his chest. One of them moved behind him and then there were strong hands grasping either side of his head, holding him still-

 

And one of them had a knife.

 

Dorian froze as it came closer and he couldn’t close his eyes and he couldn’t quite see-

 

The razor scraped against his skin, cutting away the stubble. It was such a relief to have something that put off the inevitable pain that he didn’t even squirm. They shaved off the unkempt stubble first, then his beard and finally his mustachio.

 

The barber casually wiped the razor clean on Dorian’s tattered shirt and stepped aside.

 

May be, he thought desperately, may be they wouldn’t mark his face. May be-

 

And then one of the guards stepped into his field of vision and that last bit of hope died.

 

The elf held something that reminded him of a hoe, or a chisel. A long stick that ended in a neat row of sharp metal points angled down-

 

He couldn’t get away. He couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t even move his head.

 

Dorian closed his eyes and tried not to wince as the first tap broke skin.

 

The pain wasn’t unbearable. The careful, piercing taps were like…grazing or deep scratches, sudden but fading. The ink they brushed into the wounds stung as searingly as if it was made of lemon juice. They used more than the wounds could possibly hold, so the excess trickled down his face and dried in rivulets.

 

If he didn’t think about it, about what it meant, what they were doing-

 

If he didn’t think about it he could bear it.

 

So he thought about home and his _wretched_ father who’d driven him so far that he’d thought joining the army a good idea and Alexius who’d doubtless still be obsessing over his only son-

 

Poor Felix, poor beautiful, dying Felix-

 

For a while he didn’t think of anything at all.

 

Then the guard let go of his head. They started talking around him, over him-

 

He heard people moving and then there was silence.

 

Above him and quite close someone sighed. Dorian opened his eyes.

 

An elf with an unmarked face was looking down at him. Small and bald and rather ordinary with the sort of reddish colouring that suggested naturally pale skin and too much time in the sun. The expression on his face seemed to be…pitying.

 

“I’m sorry.” The elf said in Tevene, _Tevene-_

 

He even sounded sincere although since the man was likely his _master_ now Dorian thought it rather…doubtful.

 

The elf shook his head. “They’d have killed you if someone hadn’t claimed you.”

 

And that Dorian did not doubt.

 

After a moment the elf set about undoing the straps. Dorian sat up. The elf was frowning at him.

 

“How are your feet?”

 

“My…feet?” Dorian echoed uncertainly.

 

“Yes your feet.” The elf repeated impatiently. “Can you stand? Walk? Run if necessary?”

 

“I- believe so.” Dorian replied.

 

“Good.”

 

He leant closer and Dorian flinched away. But the elf didn’t touch him, instead he grasped the cuffs around Dorian’s wrists. With a whisp of magic they fell open and came away. The elf turned his back on Dorian, walked to the edge of the room and started rooting through a pack-

 

Dorian rubbed his wrists and edged his way carefully to the end of the table.

 

The elf returned to thrust a faded cloak and scrap of clothe towards him.

 

“Clean your face as much as you can stand to and put that on. When we go outside keep the hood up. Can you speak Our language?”

 

“No.” Dorian admitted.

 

“Then I’d advise you not to try and run away unless you’ve a particular urge towards suicide.” The elf paused, scowling at the discarded hand cuffs. “At least not until you’re out of Arlathan.”

 

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Dorian managed.

 

The elf stalked away again. After a moment Dorian realised that he ought to obey his taciturn master if only because he didn’t wish to find out what disobedience would earn him just yet. The clothe was soft and slightly damp but wiping it against his face hurt almost as much as-

 

Dorian stopped. Closed his eyes. Breathed.

 

If he dabbed at the mess and didn’t press too hard it wasn’t so bad. And it must have been doing something because the clothe was gradually picking up colour, a medium brown like raw umber and a bright red which he assumed was blood. There was less of it than he’d thought-

 

The elf started pacing. Dorian watched, if the elf was going to be responsible for him from now on then…

 

Then it was only sensible for Dorian to gauge what sort of man he was.

 

Impatient was the first description that came to mind, from the way he paced, his quick glances towards the door and Dorian, his set frown. He did not give the impression of a man who had just made a good purchase, more a man who was being unreasonably delayed on the way to something far more important.

 

Despite Dorian’s initial estimate he was actually quite tall for an elf, perhaps even Dorian’s height. His clothes were plain and looked quite hardwearing. His feet were filthy; there was mud at the bottom of his trousers and what looked like a scorch mark at the edge of his tunic.

 

“Have you been through an Eluvian before?” The elf asked abruptly making Dorian start.

 

“No.” He stated and the elf’s frown deepened.

 

“It can be quite unpleasant for your kind.” The elf admitted. “Unfortunately there are few other practical ways to travel. You’ll have to bear it I’m afraid.”

 

So he was being taken even further from home. Probably to another part of their Empire altogether, to Falon’Din’s domain in the far west or Sylaise’s south of Orlais. Either would be better than Elgar’nan. He tried not to think about the ones that would be worse.

 

“Are you ready to leave?” The elf asked as Dorian put the cloth aside and started awkwardly fastening the cloak around his shoulders.

 

“Yes.”

 

Belatedly he wondered if he should have been adding ‘ser’ or ‘master’ to the end of his responses. The elf didn’t seem to mind particularly.

 

“Do not speak Tevene in public here. If you want to ask me something wait until we’re somewhere private. Keep your eyes down. With any luck no one will notice you and we’ll be able to leave without being stoned by fanatics.” The elf paused looking straight at Dorian and once again his expression seemed to be pitying, even though that was impossible-

 

“I swear you will not be harmed.” The elf said quietly and Dorian-

 

Dorian wanted to believe him.

 

“Come.” The elf said, gently as though it was a suggestion instead of an order.

 

Dorian raised the hood as far over his face as it would go and followed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevinter Gods are as follows  
> Dumat- Silence  
> Zazikel- Chaos and freedom  
> Toth- Fire  
> Andoral- Slaves and social order  
> Urthemiel- Beauty  
> Razikale- Mystery  
> Lusacan- Night 
> 
> Dorian doesn’t seem particularly religious in the game so he isn’t here either, although due to the nature of the AU he was brought up in a different religion and does habitually refer to these Gods.


	2. In which Dorian isn't the only one who lies about his name

As soon as they were out on the street the elf gripped his elbow and at first Dorian thought it was to stop him running but as they reached the crush of the main streets he realised it was just as likely to keep him from getting lost. The elf walked quickly and confidently while Dorian stumbled along beside him trying to keep up. Clearly all that time in a cell had taken more of a toll than he’d thought. And he wasn’t used to the...feel of the road beneath his bare feet, the roughness of it, the way tiny pebbles kept poking into his soles-

 

Dorian wished the guards hadn’t insisted on taking his boots along with his weapons. He also wished his master would set a more sedate pace.

 

And normally he would have been fascinated by his surroundings, to see _real_ elves in their own City rather than the tamed, mortal, subjugated creatures of home-

 

But his face still throbbed horribly, like a growing bruise. The collar sat heavy around his neck and he couldn’t help but wonder at what his master had said: that if Dorian hadn’t been ‘claimed’ he’d be dead. Which did that make the rest of his unit, Aelius and Valens, Pomponia who’d been extremely skilled despite being a first generation Laetan, Martialis who’d served in Seheron and-

 

He didn’t want to wonder, he didn’t want to think.

 

He kept his eyes down and the hood pulled low and followed the elf.

 

-

 

They turned, eventually, into a small building packed with people. Scores seemed to be streaming in but he couldn’t see anyone leaving-

 

Which meant the Eluvians.

 

The grip on his elbow tightened.

 

Dorian kept his head down, let the elf lead him slowly through the crush. Towards the towering panes of not-quite-glass. Colours swirled over the surface, like the play of light in gently moving water, as if the thing were flawed-

 

And then they stepped through.

 

It was….a path. A path through nothingness, lit far too brightly. The light burnt the void around it an endless whirling white that made his head reel.

 

Dorian staggered and the elf moved enough to support him. He paused a moment, giving Dorian the opportunity to find his feet and catch his breath. Gods but this place was terrible-

 

Then the elf set off again, at a truly punishing pace and Dorian stumbled after him into the void.

 

-

 

Dorian was reasonably certain he had never walked so much in his life. By the time they stepped out of the sixth Eluvian his entire body ached and he wanted nothing in the world quite as much as he wanted to lie down, take the weight off his agonising feet and sleep.

 

But the elf kept going; swift and sure footed even with Dorian faltering behind him.

 

It was night when they finally stepped out above ground and colder than Dorian felt it should have been.

 

South then, they’d headed south.

 

The streets, lit at intermittent intervals by magic, were almost empty. Dorian chanced a quick look around and found they were in one of the elves’ high cities, floating and half-wrapped around the canopy of great, ancient trees. It would doubtless have been impressive if they hadn’t been heading squarely for what Dorian guessed was the disreputable part of town.

 

They ducked suddenly into alleys, dodged this way and that through narrow, twisting streets. He was sure they went round in circles at least twice and he might have thought his master was getting lost except it all seemed rather…deliberate.

 

Finally they stopped.

 

The elf waved a hand at a nondescript door, like a dozen others in a row of grey, run down houses. Something over the door shimmered, like a barrier, and it opened.

 

-

 

The house was narrow but tall and deeper than it appeared from the street. The entrance was lit with a brighter, yellower version of the spells outside-

 

“Wait here.” The elf instructed and vanished into a side room.

 

Dorian wondered if he was allowed to sit down.

 

There were some mismatched Nevarra style chairs, a faded rug, a mirror-

 

He startled at his reflection. His face was swollen and red and the marks-

 

The brown lines were thick and jagged. They ran down his cheekbones, over his forehead, his chin. For a while Dorian stared, trying to take in the…that it was him, that this was what he looked like now-

 

And it occurred to him that if he wanted to take his master’s measure deciphering which god the man worshipped was probably a good start.

 

He took a few stumbling steps towards the mirror and stared. If he thought of it academically, as though the marks were disembodied or on someone else’s face then it was…bearable-

 

The pattern on his forehead was jagged rather than curved, no suggestion of horns. Which ruled out the Mother of Halla. He couldn’t see arrows either or anything to suggest the shape of a bow and he thanked Zazikel for it even if it seemed unlikely the God could hear him without a whisper of magic to carry his words.

 

Not Andruil, not Ghilan’nain, not Mythal’s leafless tree.

 

And they’d headed south. Sylaise perhaps? The elf didn’t strike him as a healer but-

 

But the marks didn’t exactly curl. There was little to suggest smoke or fire. Which left…very few of them.

 

The elf had the sort of…abrupt, condescending attitude of a tutor: perhaps he was one of Dirthamen’s? Hopefully….hopefully he wasn’t June’s because the stories Dorian had heard about _that_ _one_ were-

 

No. It wouldn’t do to panic or borrow trouble. He was Dorian Pavus. He was an Altus. And by all the Gods he was not going to let this break him.

 

He shook his head and stared at the marks again. The elves were often fairly straightforward in their symbolism. There would be something-

 

Which was when it struck him that the thick, jagged lines along his cheekbones looked almost like fur. That the long, sharp, sickles on his chin were almost like teeth-

 

_Oh Gods above no-_

 

But once he’d made it out he couldn’t see it as anything else. They’d covered his face with the image of a snarling wolf, it’s fangs at his chin, it’s thick fur along his cheekbones, the lines along his nose were it’s muzzle and the dark marks over his eyes echoed the pattern of it’s fur.

 

Dorian sat heavily on the floor.

 

The Dread Wolf. Gods above they’d sold him to a madman who served the Dread Wolf-

 

-

 

He was still on the floor when the elf returned. He sighed and thrust a cup towards Dorian.

 

“Drink.” He instructed.

 

Dorian obeyed.

 

It was…some sort of liquor, harsh and sour and barely more than a single swallow. But it helped.

 

The elf crouched in front of him, still frowning.

 

“Better?”

 

“Yes.” Dorian murmured. “Thank you.”

 

“What’s your name?” The elf asked.

 

“Felix Alexius.” Dorian lied.

 

The elf gave him a small, darkly amused smile. “You’re poorly named Felix.”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Felix.” The elf repeated. “It means ‘lucky’ does it not?”

 

“Ah. Yes.” Dorian confirmed and he supposed it _was_ a little funny.

 

The elf took the empty cup from his unresisting hands and put it aside.

 

“You may ask questions.” The elf informed him.

 

“What-” Dorian stopped, swallowed and tried again. “What should I call you?”

 

“Solas.” The elf replied.

 

“Solas.” Dorian repeated and apparently his pronunciation was adequate because the elf nodded.

 

He placed a large metal bracelet on the floor between them, a dull, battered thing.

 

“Do you know what this is?” The elf enquired and after a moment Dorian picked it up.

 

It had an enchantment woven through it and gave the impression of being quite…sturdy. It might have been a chain, or a cuff designed to fit anyone from a dwarf to a Qunari, but there was no visible way to attach it to anything else.

 

“Similar to the collar.” Dorian guessed.

 

“Very good.” The elf responded, in a tone that would have made Dorian feel like an idiot apprentice if he hadn’t been quite so tired and terrified.

 

“Unlike that,” The elf continued gesturing to the collar. “It will not damage you when you attempt to cast spells. It will also allow you limited access to the Fade, enough to pray if you desire. If you put it on without a fuss I’ll remove the collar.”

 

“And if I don’t?” Dorian enquired before realising that that was really a ridiculously stupid-

 

“Then you continue to wear the collar.” The elf said simply. “Which I imagine is also heavier and likely to limit your ability to breath.”

 

Dorian turned the bracelet, no anklet, over in his hands several times while the elf waited.

 

Eventually he opened it and put it around his right leg.

 

The elf nodded, reached over him to touch the anklet and the collar-

 

One sealed, the other fell open and dropped from his shoulders. Dorian rubbed absently at the back of his neck. The elf glared at the collar and didn’t withdraw to a comfortable distance.

 

“I’m going to remove the vallaslin now.” He stated and raised his hands, a powerful spell growing at his fingertips-

 

Dorian flinched and the elf lowered his hands.

 

“Do you truly want to keep those filthy marks?”

 

“The-” Dorian trailed off and raised a hand to his face.

 

“Yes. That.” The elf told him impatiently. “The spell is painless if that makes a particular difference to whether you’d rather remain mutilated.”

 

It didn’t- it didn’t make _sense_. He knew little about the elves if he was perfectly honest, but _everyone_ knew what tattooed faces meant. Removing them implied…but the elf clearly wasn’t freeing him. And Dorian dreaded to think what a slave with an unmarked face might be used for. Especially by a man who worshipped the Dread Wolf and apparently found the marks…unpleasant.

 

But Dorian wanted them gone, wanted to be able to look in a mirror and see himself instead of a snarling beast. He straightened and turned to face the elf again, which his master apparently took as a sign to start-

 

“Close your eyes.” He instructed and Dorian obeyed.

 

After a moment the elf told him he could open them again.

 

His master was…almost smiling. Dorian wasn’t sure if that was…good.

 

“Thank you, Solas.” Dorian murmured because he felt it was expected.

 

The elf’s smile vanished. “I assume you looked at the vallaslin?”

 

“Yes.” Dorian confirmed.

 

“Did you recognise it?”

 

He half wanted to lie. But he didn’t think he could, not convincingly and considering what a terrible mess of a slave he’d been so far it wouldn’t do to openly invite punishment.

 

He couldn’t quite bring himself to answer either.

 

The elf sighed and finally sat back, giving Dorian enough space to breath freely.

 

“You are not a slave. The Dread Wolf doesn’t permit slavery. You are a prisoner of war. You will not be tortured. You will not be raped. You will not be starved, deprived of water or shelter. You will not be forced to work. If you attempt to escape I will find you and drag you back and the rest of your stay is likely to be much less comfortable. Do you understand?”

 

The words hit him like blunt heavy blows. And he understood them, the Tevene. They just didn’t make any sense.

 

Dorian nodded automatically.

 

“Good.” The elf said and got to his feet.

 

“The kitchen is that way; help yourself.” He informed Dorian offhandedly. “The stairs are through there, you’re welcome to any of the rooms on the left.”

 

And with that he left.

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevinter society has a class/caste system which Dorian refers to quite often so for reference/reminders  
> Magister- Mages who have a seat in the governing body, mostly wealthy and of the Altus class. High ranking priests, military commanders and magical researchers are represented.  
> Altus- Mages descended from the Gods original worshippers who founded the Tevinter Imperium. These wealthy, upper class families occupy the upper echelons of most professions and organisations in Tevinter. Altus and Magisters are exclusively human  
> Laetan- Mages who are not descended from the founders of the Imperium, although their families may or may not have a history of magic. Perhaps less privileged than the Altus, with less automatic respect and support. Nevertheless the opportunities available to Altus are also (in theory) available to Laetans. The children of a Laetan and an Altus are Altus.   
> Soporati- The free non-mages who make up the majority of society. Overwhelmingly human, they can own property, run businesses and serve in the military but their progression in service to the Gods is limited and they have no say in government.  
> Liberati- Freed slaves. They can own property and take some lower ranking positions, ie as apprentices. They can’t join the military, serve the Gods (except Andoral) and have limited opportunities compared to Soporati. The children of Liberati are usually regarded as Soporati.  
> Slave- Property of a higher class or organisation. They can not own property, serve or perform any occupation except by the express orders of the owners. They have no freedom of movement and have extremely limited rights. The killing or injury of a slave is not a crime against the slave but against their master.
> 
> Relevant Elvhen-  
> Vallaslin- Blood writing, facial tattoos signifying a particular Elvhen God, applied to slaves.


	3. In which Dorian continues to be confused

Dorian spent the next two days avoiding the elf and waiting for something horrible to happen.

 

He spent the first day and night wavering between exhaustion and abject terror. By the second day the novelty had rather worn off. Which was also about the time that he discovered his feet were a mess and he was starving.

 

He’d risked a quick limping trip down to the kitchen and found most of the food decidedly raw. He had only the vaguest idea how to prepare some of it and most of it seemed entirely foreign. Some exploration produced a loaf and what might have been ham. He…procured it along with an armful of the fruits he recognised and hobbled back towards the stairs.

 

Which was of course when he ran into the elf again.

 

Dorian froze. The elf glared and Dorian was preparing to stammer out an apology but the elf got there first.

 

“Elfroot tinctures and bandages are upstairs, last room on the right. The large cabinet. I assume you know how to use them? Good. Take care of your feet and stop bleeding on my floor.”

 

The elf walked on without a backward glance.

 

-

 

By the third day Dorian was fed up of cowering in the room he’d claimed.

 

He began a halting exploration of the house. It was reasonably large and strangely empty. He’d guessed that- well it was obvious that Dorian and the elf were the only current inhabitants. Which was strange given the building’s size, no family, no servants-

 

Although the lack of servants did explain the dishevelled state of the place- The floors didn’t seem to have been scrubbed once since they were laid.

 

The furniture was also unusual, a mishmash of pieces of different periods, styles and places collected in a haphazard fashion. He’d thought at first that the elf just had bizarre taste but the more he looked the more unlikely that seemed. The house looked as if it had been furnished by the collected efforts of six dozen people whose main motivation had been getting rid of that one awkward item that had been cluttering up their living room.

 

He found the elf in the library, sprawled sideways over a chair that looked like it had been built for a Qunari.

 

“Hello Felix.” The elf said without looking up from his book.

 

It took Dorian an awkward moment to remember that was the name he’d given.

 

“Solas.” Dorian intoned.

 

“How are your feet?” The elf enquired.

 

Dorian winced.

 

“Terrible.” He admitted.

 

“Well you’ll be relieved to know we probably won’t have to run for our lives for at least a few days.”

 

How extremely reassuring.

 

Dorian sighed limped to the nearest chair and sat. The elf put the book aside.

 

“You said I could ask questions.” Dorian said finally.

 

“I do not promise to have answers, Felix.” The elf responded, which Dorian took to be permission.

 

He stared down at his hands and sighed.

 

“My…unit was captured almost in its entirety.” He explained. “I was the last they came for. I- I don’t suppose there’s any way to?-”

 

“Determine what became of them? No.” The elf twisted to look at him with something almost like sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

 

Dorian closed his eyes, it wasn’t exactly unexpected and they’d likely died but-

 

He shook his head, opened his eyes and met the elf’s curious stare.

 

“You said I’m a prisoner. What do you intend to do with me?”

 

“Personally?” The elf asked. “Escort you to the Anderfels. Probably to our fortress at Weisshaupt.”

 

The middle of the Dread Wolf’s territory in the blighted, Breach-filled, demon infested middle of nowhere. Wonderful.

 

“And what generally happens to Tevinter prisoners in Weisshaupt?”

 

The elf shrugged and shifted again so that most of what Dorian could see of him was his ear and the back of his head. It was giving him the sudden urge to correct his mast- his _guard’s_ posture.

 

“That depends on the prisoner. The Imperium is usually interested in reclaiming- what is your word? Magic users, of high caste?”

 

“The Imperium doesn’t have castes, they’re classes.” Dorian told him but the elf waved the statement away as if it was a frivolous distinction.

 

“Altus. Is that correct? Altus? They can always be ransomed back, usually for a very good price. For the lower castes it’s sometimes possible, if they’re sufficiently high ranking or are from a wealthy family. Otherwise? It depends.”

 

“On what?” Dorian interrupted, failing to keep the irritation out of his tone.

 

It didn’t seem to bother the elf at all.

 

“Chiefly on the individual. Your more loyal or violent soldiers tend to be imprisoned in the traditional sense, or executed if they manage to hurt one of ours. Some join the Wardens. Some of the Andrastian converts join their Circle or Chantry. A few even join us. Most are settled around the lakes north of the Hunterhorn range.”

 

“They live on a mountain.” Dorian intoned.

 

“They live at the foot of several mountains.” The elf corrected. “And have been since…shortly after the first Divines. Some of the cities are quite sizeable. Most of the inhabitants are descendants of prisoners from past wars. It may surprise you but most of them seem to consider themselves Ander, whether they are prisoners or not.”

 

So he could either resign himself to a life exiled to the barbaric, scorched, thrice-cursed Anderfels in a city full of people the Wardens, the Andrastians and the _Dread Wolf_ had all rejected or risk asking his _father_ to raise a ransom and hope he didn’t end up locked away in Qarinus again. _Wonderful_.

 

Dorian sighed. The worst of it was there was nothing he could do-

 

“If you’re taking me to the Anderfels why are we still here?”

 

“Are you in a particular rush?” The elf asked.

 

“No.” Dorian grumbled.

 

He was probably lucky to have been given as many answers as he had. Gods above he was lucky not to have died in that temple, lucky to have the collar off, lucky he had a guard who’d bothered to fix his face-

 

The elf shifted to sit up, cross-legged and turned to face Dorian properly.

 

“I didn’t plan to rescue you. I wasn’t even aware that Elgar’nan had captured any Tevinters until I passed the temple. I was there for other reasons and had arranged to meet a friend here once our business was concluded. When she arrives we will go north.” He tilted his head to one side, considering. “Does that satisfy you?”

 

“What were you-” Dorian began before thinking better of it.

 

He shut his mouth quickly and hoped the elf would ignore his momentary lapse in judgement. The elf gave him a brief, amused smirk.

 

“Do you truly want to know what business the Dread Wolf might have in another god’s territory close to your borders?”

 

“On reflection,” Dorian replied managing to return the elf’s smirk. “No I think not. But if you have any notion of when your…colleague might appear?”

 

The elf shrugged. “Not more than two weeks.”

 

Two weeks.

 

Dorian sighed.

 

“Thank you, Solas.”

 

Dorian rose. The elf sprawled out over the chair again and picked his book back up.

 

“Oh, Felix?” The elf called after him. “Can you stop pronouncing my name as though it means ‘Magister’?”

 

-

 

There was no one else in the house. No servants. No guards. Just Dorian and Solas, who didn’t seem particularly concerned with keeping a close eye on him. And there was a part of Dorian, perhaps the part that had always been drawn to the God of Chaos and Freedom, which kept urging him to take advantage of this and run.

 

Of course there was another part of Dorian that insisted Solas was not stupid: if the elf wasn’t watching Dorian all hours of the day then that probably meant he didn’t need to.

 

The frustrating thing was he couldn’t see why-

 

Perhaps the elf was relying on the fact that Dorian couldn’t speak Elvhen and hadn’t the faintest idea where they were. But that seemed rather…trusting: a slave even one promised a degree of freedom might have lied and a prisoner might well decide the unknown risks of part of the Elvhen Empire were preferable to the known risks of the Anderfels.

 

And he _knew_ he wouldn’t get very far if he managed to escape at all. They were in the _south_ for pity’s sake! If his guard somehow didn’t have a way to keep track of him, _if_ he managed to get out of the city and _if_ he wasn’t shot by terrified elvhen peasants then he’d freeze, or starve, or end up in _Ferelden_ or somewhere equally atrocious. He knew all of that-

 

But he was Dorian Pavus and he had to try.

 

The device around his ankle didn’t hurt and it let him draw just enough power to make a small light. Which was useful because otherwise he’d probably have tripped over or walked into every awful piece of junk between his room and the front door.

 

He stopped, staring at the door and drew a deep breath.

 

It was bound to be locked.

 

Except for some reason it wasn’t.

 

The door swung outward and Dorian gaped at the dark.

 

It really couldn’t be _that_ simple.

 

There was no barrier in the doorway, no tell tale shimmer or feel of magic. After a moment Dorian stuck his head out and glanced down the street. There were no other guards he could see, no one watching the house…

 

He was missing something. He had to be.

 

He stepped over the threshold.

 

Nothing happened.

 

He was definitely missing something.

 

The road was cold and rough and he still didn’t have any shoes and if he started walking he was bound to cut his feet open again before he’d gotten out of the city and he didn’t imagine the forest floor would be any kinder on his feet than the roads-

 

And he still had the elf’s enchanted band locked round his ankle.

 

It occurred to Dorian, belatedly, that suppressing his connection to the Fade might not be the only thing it could do.

 

He picked his way carefully across the road and turned to look back at the house. He’d wait…ten minutes, that seemed a sensible amount of time. If nothing happened, if his guard really was that lax, he’d go back in long enough to get some supplies, food, elfroot tinctures, something to wrap around his feet and leave. If not-

 

He rubbed his arms in a vain attempt to keep them warm and shifted, lifting one foot then the other off the ground. It didn’t help return the feeling to his toes.

 

After about five minutes a light appeared in one of the windows. Dorian sighed.

 

He picked his way back, rubbing the dust and fragments of pebble off his soles on his calf when he reached the doorway. He stepped back inside and shut the door behind him.

 

The light went out as he crept back upstairs. Dorian didn’t try to escape again.

 


	4. In which there is politics and Dorian is annoyed

 

He found the elf- Solas, in the library the next morning. Dorian was starting to suspect he slept there.

 

“Felix.” The elf greeted him.

 

“Solas.” Dorian replied.

 

The elf didn’t look up from his book. Dorian fidgeted in the doorway trying to pluck up the nerve too-

 

Then again he’d not managed to anger Solas with questions before-

 

“What else does it do?” Dorian asked in a rush of words.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“The…bracelet.” Dorian explained. “I’d assumed it was a relatively straightforward enchantment, but it doesn’t _block_ magic precisely. It seems to distinguish spells to some degree and- I assume it activates some sort of alarm if I leave the house? Does it allow the wearer to be tracked as well? How was it done? Are the enchantments woven together throughout the device or was each installed separately in part of the-”

 

“Felix-” The elf interrupted.

 

Dorian stopped. He apparently had Solas’ full attention for the moment and the elf- He was giving Dorian an odd sort of half-smile, the kind Dorian had gotten from the servants as a boy after doing something which, while impressive, had created something of a mess.

 

“I can’t answer any of your questions.”

 

“Do you know how it works?” Dorian couldn’t imagine that he didn’t.

 

“Of course.” Solas replied. “But I can hardly tell you when there’s a chance you’ll return home to explain it to our enemies.”

 

The elf shrugged. “Besides, the dwarf who designed them would be upset if I did and then half the durgen’len in Weisshaupt would want to skin me alive.”

 

“The Dread Wolf has dwarves in his fortress?” Dorian blurted out before he had time to think better of questioning the elf’s _god_ -

 

“Well, yes.” Solas answered as though it was perfectly reasonable to assume an Elvhen god would allow anyone other than the immortal class of elf into his stronghold. “Why wouldn’t we?”

 

“I was under the impression your gods rarely…” Dorian paused trying to think of a politic way of putting it- “Tolerated other peoples.”

 

The elf snorted. “Tevinter lore about elves remains as accurate as always. If we are entirely isolated how do your people explain Lady Morrigan?”

 

“Who?”

 

Solas smiled and gestured, book in hand, for Dorian to sit. He picked a chair that at least looked as though it had been built for someone human, even if that was the only feature that could recommend it.

 

“Yes we have dwarves,” The elf informed him. “And humans and elves that have quickened and Kossith-”

 

“Kossith?” Dorian queried.

 

“Dorf’len?” Solas suggested. “Vashoth? Perhaps Tal-Vashoth?”

 

“You mean _Qunari?!”_ Dorian balked at the suggestion.

 

He wouldn’t have thought even the Dread Wolf would have stooped to ally with- And as soon as he considered it he realised it was ridiculous: the true elves were all mages to some extent and if what they said the Qunari did to mages was even halfway true- Not even the Dread Wolf would do that to his own people, surely?

 

Solas gave him a mildly disappointed look, as if he’d come to expect better of Dorian.

 

“They are not Qunari. They left the Qun or were born outside it-”

 

“Giants?” Dorian said, just to be completely sure they were talking about the same thing. “Grey skin. Horns. Unfortunate tendency towards banditry?”

 

“Yes.” Solas confirmed.

 

Dorian supposed that if you could persuade the brutes to adopt a more civilised attitude towards magic then it made a certain kind of sense. They certainly looked like the sort of people you’d want fighting demons and lesser dragons and Gods alone knew what else.

 

“And they worship the Dread Wolf?”

 

The suggestion seemed to offend Solas. “No one _worships_ the Dread Wolf-”

 

“I assumed you-” Dorian began.

 

“ _No.”_ Solas intoned with a certain finality.

 

It probably should have warned Dorian to stop prying, but it didn’t make any sense-

 

“But,” Dorian protested. “He _is_ your god?”

 

“‘God’ is the word you translate it to,” Solas responded shifting so that his attention seemed to have gone back to his book. “It’s not entirely inaccurate. But your ‘deus’ is not the same as ‘evanuris’”

 

“But your other gods are worshipped are they not?” Dorian asked and Solas nodded. “So why is he-”

 

“Because he is also what the people of Elvhenan would call ‘lothlena’ and what we call ‘revavhen’-”

 

“I’m sorry,” Dorian murmured and he knew he should stop asking questions he really did but- “My Elvhen is non-existent. I don’t understand the reference.”

 

Solas sighed sat up straight again and abandoned his pretence at reading. “It dates back to our civil war, before the founding of your Imperium. Revavhen is a school of thought, evanuris is something one is or is not capable of being. Demanding worship because of an accident of birth and background is in keeping with the Arlathan way, not ours. Does that satisfy you?”

 

It didn’t entirely but he seemed to be reaching the end of the elf’s patience and Dorian’s common sense was beginning to win against his curiosity.

 

“Yes,” He replied, rising to beat his retreat before he managed to truly aggravate his guard. “Thank you Solas.”

 

-

 

Of course the problem with trying to keep the elf at a polite distance was that there was no one else in the house and absolutely nothing to do. Two weeks of avoiding Solas was probably impossible. Keeping any conversations they had on ‘safe’ ground seemed equally unlikely when Dorian apparently hadn’t the faintest idea what was offensive and what wasn’t.

 

He _was_ curious, it would be difficult for anyone with even the most meagre education not to be but-

 

He could hardly afford to simply indulge himself his situation was-

 

His situation was apparently complicated and while Dorian believed he could trust Solas’ word - that he was not a slave, that he would not be harmed - it certainly didn’t make them equals. The truth was he had no idea what was going to happen to him and that-

 

That paradoxically made it a lot easier to think of questions he’d love to ask a true elf or a denizen of the Anderfels or a…supporter of the Dread Wolf for that matter. Thinking about what in Dumat’s name ‘revavhen’ actually meant or about elvhen immortality or-

 

He ended up spending most of the day ransacking the upper floors in search of more serviceable clothing. Because he needed to. Because his dratted uniform had suffered enough. Because he wanted to feel more like himself and a bath and clean clothes would be a start.

 

Having a task that didn’t involve being anywhere near Solas was merely a welcome side effect.  

 

-

 

It lasted a good few hours before Dorian had to venture downstairs to find something to eat. Solas was already in the kitchen, because that was apparently how Dorian’s luck ran now. He half thought about sneaking back upstairs but then the elf gave him a clipped greeting and he couldn’t really-

 

Dorian sighed and stepped properly into the room.

 

“Solas, have I offended you?”

 

“If you have, why would it concern you?”

 

“I-” Dorian stammered and Solas froze.

 

“Forgive me,” Solas said, turning enough to face him. “I didn’t- I’m sorry.”

 

He gestured for Dorian to sit and after a moment’s hesitation Dorian did.

 

“Our war ended thousands of years ago and Arlathan continues to dictate how the rest of Thedas sees us.” Solas told Dorian before turning back to…whatever it was he was making. “We are always the savages, the madmen, the worst of Our People. Nevermind that Andruil is a bloodthirsty warmonger or that Elgar’nan has his captives debased and slaughtered or that Falon’Din periodically raids Orlais simply because he desires even more worshippers-”

 

The elf sighed. “It can be useful politically but it is…aggravating.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Dorian murmured.

 

Solas shrugged. “E’banal. You did not know Felix, and I should not have discouraged you.”

 

Dorian shifted awkwardly. He wasn’t entirely sure whether that was an invitation to resume prying or not.

 

He sat silently while Solas cooked. It smelt- it smelt peppery and of spices he didn’t recognise. And he was very hungry-

 

“You wished to know why Fen’Harel is not worshipped.” Solas stated and after a moment Dorian nodded.

 

“The…system that holds sway in Arlathan classes people by the magic they are capable of. There are some other factors but that is the central one. The more powerful rule the less powerful simply because of what they are.” He shook his head. “We hold that the right to rule should be based on actions not nature.”

 

It made a certain degree of sense, based on what Dorian knew about the Anderfels anyway. There was a reason the Imperium’s army kept a respectful distance from the Anders border after all and the stories of Fen’Harel’s part in the war against the Qunari might have been dismissed as imaginative propaganda pieces if it wasn’t for the holes in the northern coastline.

 

“I believe I understand.” Dorian replied thoughtfully. “So the Dread Wolf rules because of his military record?”

 

Solas muttered something Elvhen which, judging by the tone, was probably rude.

 

Dorian murmured an apology which Solas waved away.

 

“No one _rules_ the Anderfels precisely.” The elf explained. “There are a number of different groups with a degree of power, the Wardens, the Orth, our Andrastians, the Seheron refugees on the east coast. We have…an arrangement.”

 

“An arrangement?” Dorian repeated dubiously.

 

“Yes.” Solas replied.

 

He was about to ask how exactly a mage could come to an agreement with Andrastians when Solas put a bowl of…whatever it was he’d been cooking in front of Dorian.

 

“Thank you,” Dorian said with some surprise and a slightly automatic reliance on manners. “But I-”

 

“You can’t cook.” Solas stated, sliding into the place opposite Dorian with a bowl of his own and a plate of flat bread.

 

“I- No.” Dorian admitted. “Not beyond what you learn in a few months in the army anyway.”

 

Solas smiled briefly and then turned to his supper. Apparently it was eaten by using the bread to support the- whatever it was that was in the bowl. After a few moments observation Dorian made an attempt.

 

It wasn’t _bad_ \- A little sour with a strong peppery kick and some sort of oddly sweet dried fruit. And if he was careful it could be consumed without making a godawful mess.

 

“Your ‘arrangement’,” Dorian began. “What does it involve? Or are you not permitted-”

 

“It’s no secret.” The elf replied without looking up. “We agree to a small set of common laws and when necessary assist each other.”

 

“You help the Andrastians?” Dorian asked doubtfully.

 

“The Anderfels is not an easy place to survive, Felix.”

 

“I- No I suppose not.” Dorian agreed. “I’m surprised you could get them to agree to follow the Dre- _Elvhen_ law though.”

 

“For the most part they don’t.” Solas responded. “Our agreement is considerably simpler: no one may be forced into any group, disagreements between any groups are settled by a third party, we assist each other as far as possible with the Breaches and in times of shortage. And there is no slavery in the Anderfels.”

 

“I…see.” Dorian replied uncertainly.

 

It sounded simple enough, but the world, in Dorian’s limited experience, was not that straightforward. The Wardens were supposed to be neutral of course, threats to all of Thedas first and so forth, but the Andrastians were another matter enti-

 

Which was when a rather more pertinent point occurred to Dorian.

 

“There’s no slavery anywhere in the Anderfels?” He asked, frowning.

 

“Correct.” Solas confirmed.

 

“And you said Fen’Harel is personally against slavery?”

 

“Yes.” Solas stated, giving Dorian a curious look that Dorian tried his best to ignore.

 

“And that’s presumably reasonably well known among your people?”

 

“Do you have a point, Felix?”

 

“Did you _steal_ me?” Dorian demanded in a scandalised tone.

 

Solas leaned back in his chair, apparently considering the question. Dorian did not think that was a particularly good sign.

 

“That probably depends on your interpretation of the law.” Solas answered finally.

 

Dorian was surprised to find he was actually getting slightly offended. It shouldn’t have made a difference really. Being reduced to his current position, while preferable to Elgar’nan’s hospitality, was certainly insulting enough. It was just- the _nerve_ of it! How dare they! Not content with reducing him to _property_ they had to make him _contraband_ \- Wonderful!

 

“I would have thought that generally there’d be little room for interpretation.”

 

Solas shrugged.

 

Unbelievable.

 

“You stole me.” Dorian accused.

 

“Do you feel a particular desire to return to that temple, Felix?” Solas enquired and Dorian half-wanted to hit him on the principal that he was a smug, dishonest, cad.

 

“No.” Dorian grated. “I would however like to know exactly how many angry elves I can expect to try to kill me in the immediate future.”

 

“How valuable are you?” Solas asked and Dorian spluttered.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“How valuable are you?” Solas repeated. “What was your rank and caste? Would your superiors be eager to get you back? Would your family be able to pay for your return? Have you, personally, caused particular trouble along the border with Arlathan?”

 

The elf paused and Dorian gaped.

 

“I-”

 

Solas shrugged again, as if it was of no particular consequence.

 

“The possible dangers depend on how valuable you are to them.” Solas explained. “And you are probably a better judge of that than I am.”

 

“I-” Dorian began eloquently.

 

He had no idea what to say. He definitely didn’t want the Dread Wolf’s attention (a likely outcome if he admitted he was an Altus in line to inherit a Magisterial seat) but he didn’t want to be caught lying to one of the Dread Wolf’s followers either. He didn’t want to be stuck at the foot of a mountain in the Anderfels for the rest of his life but he didn’t want to be handed off to his father to endure Gods only knew what either. He-

 

And now he’d hesitated, which probably made it look even more like he was trying to come up with a convenient lie on the spot.

 

“I’m…no one special.” Dorian said finally, and hoped that he sounded cautious rather than suspicious.

 

“You’re a mage and an officer.” Solas stated and of course he knew Dorian hadn’t exactly made an effort to hide his uniform.

 

“An extremely low ranking officer.” Dorian told him truthfully. “I joined less than six months ago. I’m a third generation Laetan and my father spent most of our money on the commission.”

 

He watched Solas carefully for- he wasn’t even sure what exactly. Some sort of sign. Thankfully the elf seemed to take his word for it.

 

“Then you shouldn’t have anything to worry about Felix.” Solas stated blandly.

 

“Aside from being transported to the Anderfels?” Dorian rejoined and Solas-

 

Solas smiled, quick and sharp and surprisingly beautiful-

 

“Don’t worry.” He replied in a tone that had the opposite effect. “We’re unlikely to run into any dragons or nesting griffins at this time of year. So we should only have rifts, wild animals and poisonous insects to worry about.”

 

“You are _so_ reassuring.” Dorian grumbled and the elf laughed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes use of ‘Kossith’
> 
> So this is an archaic word for the Qunari race, so archaic that Bioware insists no one uses it. The comparison was that it was like calling Westerners ‘Occidental’, ie only a handful of academics would understand what you were on about. So I considered that carefully and decided that *yes* of course Solas would bloody insist on using it. 
> 
> Relevant Elvhen  
> Durgen’len- Stone children. Dwarves  
> Vallaslin- Blood writing, facial tattoos signifying a particular Elvhen God, applied to slaves.  
> Dorf’len- Grey children. Language is canon but this isn’t a canon reference to the Qunari race.  
> Lothlen- forget  
> Lothlena- adjusted to suggest ‘forgotten ones’  
> Evanuris- Leaders, apparently what the Elvhen called their Gods.  
> Revas- Freedom  
> Vhen- People  
> Revavhen- Free people  
> Banal- Nothing  
> E’banal- adjusted to suggest ‘it’s nothing’


	5. In which Solas is not reassuring and Dorian rearranges the library

They settled into a slightly odd routine. Solas cooked. Dorian returned the favour by attempting to clean and trying not to smash any crockery that didn’t absolutely deserve it.

 

They had a long conversation about magical theory with Dorian attempting to explain that when you _thought_ about it different spells naturally broke down into different schools and Solas insisting that magic was magic and such distinctions were illusionary. It was a fascinating insight into Elvhen thought and teaching practices at least. Neither of them swayed from their position in the slightest and the argument went on for hours.

 

It was the most enjoyable discussion he’d had since- well since Felix’s illness.

 

In light of that Dorian was prepared to be magnanimous. Solas was allowed to be wrong.

 

Their debate had ended with Dorian asking whether he might be permitted to make use of the library and Solas treating him to a particularly perplexed expression, as though it never would have occurred to him to forbid it.

 

The books were as well matched as the furniture, though thankfully of a significantly higher quality. He recognised Orlesian, Ferelden, Common (of course), Tevene, the curling Elvhen script and the blocky Dwarven one, as well as something that Dorian assumed was Qunlat. There was no ordering system that Dorian could decipher and as a result their next debate had been chiefly Dorian espousing the virtues of the Genitivi’s Cataloguing System or the Publishing Industry Standard Codex or Thedas Uniform Classification. Or any system that didn’t put a Tethras novel between a Ferelden edition of ‘The Travels of a Chantry Scholar’ and an Orlesian cookbook.

 

“Why do you even have ‘Hard in Hightown’?” Dorian wondered aloud.

 

“It was enjoyable.” Solas stated.

 

Dorian responded with a doubtful noise.

 

Further perusal of the library uncovered several more Tethras books. Perhaps Solas was a fan? It would certainly have matched his abysmal taste in furnishings. On the other hand Dorian supposed there probably wasn’t an awful lot of good quality entertainment available in the Anderfels. At least not the sort that didn’t involve demons, dragons and somebody’s untimely death.

 

It certainly said something about the state of his family that Dorian was even momentarily considering the advantages of the blasted place.

 

After some thought, and quick consideration of whether it was likely to aggrieve his host, Dorian decided to impose some order on the library. It would at least enable him to find books in languages he could actually read.

 

Thankfully the worst Solas did was watch with an expression of mild amusement. Which, after the fourth mountain of books capsized, Dorian had to admit was probably justified.

 

“I would not have to do this if _you_ had bothered with a sane cataloguing system when you started this mess of a library.” Dorian grumbled anyway.

 

Solas smirked into his book. “You do realise I don’t actually live here?”

 

“Of course.” Dorian retorted. “But it is yours is it not?”

 

“It is.” Solas admitted.

 

“Therefore this abominable mess,” He said, gesturing to the piles and as yet unordered shelves. “Is ultimately your fault.”

 

“Ah yes.” Solas replied. “I should certainly be capable of controlling the content and cataloguing of a library in a safe house from the Anderfels. I see my mistake.”

 

“Fasta vass! You have ‘An Examination of Orlesian Government’ next to volume three of ‘The Botanical Compendium’!”

 

“My deepest apologies for having incited such madness.”

 

“I should hope so!”

 

-

 

It took Dorian two days to order the books he could understand: the Common, Tevene, Orlesian, Ferelden and some of the Dwarven. He suspected the rest of the Dwarven was Western or Eastern dialects rather than the Orzammar standard. Thankfully Solas didn’t seem to mind translating titles for him, which was preferable to flicking through and guessing.

 

“This would go much faster if you helped.” Dorian pointed out after Solas’ suggestion that ‘The Way of Three Trees’ was religious or political rather than botanic.

 

“But then you’d be bored.” Solas replied. “And if you’ve been driven to rearranging the entire library after little more than a week then I dread to think what you’d do to the rest of the house.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous. It would take much longer than two weeks to burn all your dreadful furniture.”

 

“A week and a half.” Solas corrected.

 

“Ah. Yes.” Dorian murmured. “My mistake.”

 

-

 

“Where are you from?” Dorian wondered aloud as he perused the finally-ordered shelving.

 

Solas glanced up from his book. “Does it matter?”

 

“I suppose not.” Dorian allowed as he flipped through ‘Travels of a Chantry Scholar’.

 

Why in the Gods names couldn’t Genitivi have included a longer section on the Anderfels?

 

“I’m curious though.” Dorian continued after a moment. “You certainly don’t look like an Ander native.”

 

“What do you imagine an ‘Ander native’ should look like, Felix?” Solas enquired and Dorian could practically feel his blasted smirk.

 

“Less sunburned.”

 

Solas chuckled and relented. “I was born and raised in what is now western Ferelden. But I was exiled with the rest of Fen’Harel’s army after our war: I’ve spent far longer in the Anderfels than anywhere else.”

 

Blast it all, Genitivi was supposed to be a consummate scholar, how in Razikale’s name could his account of the Anderfels be so pitiful? He needed details about Weisshaupt not pages upon pages of praise for Andrastian idols or the heroism of the Grey Wardens. The man had barely put in two paragraphs about the Dread Wolf so far-

 

“Ferelden?” Dorian repeated, smiling. “Truly?”

 

“Yes.” Solas stated flatly. “And I have heard every witticism you can think of on the subject of dogs, werewolves, mabari-”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

“And you?” Solas asked _just_ as Dorian had found the appropriate section.

 

“You know where I’m from.” Dorian replied, fumbling with the dratted Genitivi.

 

“Nothing more specific than ‘Tevinter’.”

 

Dorian paused. It couldn’t do any harm-

 

“My family’s from Qarinus.” He admitted.

 

“Ah. My condolences.”

 

“Whatever for?”

 

“Aside from being far too close to Elgar’nan for any body’s comfort?”

 

“Hmm. Point taken.”

 

-

 

While he’d never really taken the time to consider it before Dorian had rapidly come to the conclusion that there were too few books on the Anderfels. At least there were very few Dorian could actually _read_. It was possible that some of the indecipherable ones held hints of what he should expect but that wasn’t particularly helpful.

 

He could ask Solas but-

 

But it would have been nice to have some form of….conformation. Purely for peace of mind.

 

He smuggled ‘Travels of a Chantry Scholar’ up to his room and read the relevant chapter again and again. He wondered vaguely if he should ask the Gods’ forgiveness for memorising the passage on Andrastian idols carved into the mountains. Urthemiel was unlikely to care- maybe he should ask the God of Beauty to have a quiet word with the others.

 

Which was a ridiculous thought. He’d barely given the Gods more than lip-service before his father had him locked up. Now he was well on his way to becoming _devout_! No wonder the Gods weren’t helping-

 

He was still mulling over the problem when he trudged downstairs for supper. He poked at the bowl Solas had put in front of him with his bread and tried not to think about it.

 

But his mind kept going back to it unbidden. He imagined holding his tongue, only to arrive at the base of the Hunterhorns in the most deprived slum he could picture. He imagined a city where demons stalked the streets at night with no Gods to watch over the sleeping populace.

 

Of course he might also be forced into the Wardens, where their ghastly green marks would eat away at his body if he didn’t pass their mysterious Joining. Or he could be given to Andrastians and locked away like a criminal for the rest of his life, cut off from magic, cut off from the Fade-

 

How in the name of all the Gods was he supposed to decide when he hadn’t the least idea what his options really were? Dorian sighed.

 

It was likely that if he stayed silent on the subject of his parentage he’d have very little say in where he ended up. But then the same could be said for being ransomed back to his Zazikel-damned _father_. Would the Anderfels really be so much worse than a cell in Qarinus with his father trying to persuade him to live a lie?

 

“Felix?” Solas prompted gently and Dorian looked up.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dorian replied reflexively. “What did you say?”

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Dorian was half-tempted to come up with an excuse or evasion but-

 

“I realise we’ve discussed this before,” Dorian began and trailed off trying to think of a way to phrase it.

 

Solas waited patiently.

 

“What will happen to me once we reach the Anderfels?” Dorian asked finally. “How do you decide which prisoners you send to the Wardens or the Andrastians or the mountains?”

 

“We don’t.” Solas replied. “Those that are not violent and cannot be ransomed are allowed to choose.”

 

His relief must have been visible because Solas gave him a mild frown and continued.

 

“Did you truly think you might be forced into a Circle tower Felix?”

 

“Yes.” Dorian sighed.

 

“Then you have my apologies. I should have been clearer.” Solas paused. “Is that why you appropriated some of my books?”

 

“To find out what I could expect? Yes.”

 

Solas nodded thoughtfully and Dorian turned back to his food.

 

“I understand that you might not trust my answers,” Solas said carefully. “But you can ask.” 

 

Dorian considered it for a moment and found he had no idea where to start. Obviously not all the ‘facts’ he’d been taught at home were true and equally some of the wilder rumours might not be false. He’d known that for years and there were dozens, probably hundreds of things he should ask.

 

“I’ve heard,” Dorian murmured after a while. “That the wine is terrible.”

 

“As Andruil’s anger.” Solas replied.

 

For some reason he found it funny. It wasn’t funny, it was _horrendous_ : he was going to be stranded in breach-filled wasteland with _no alcohol_!

 

He took a deep shuddering breath and let it out in a rush.

 

“I have a choice.” He mumbled.

 

“Yes.” Solas stated.

 

Dorian scrubbed his hands over his face, thought of the Gods and wondered vaguely which was appropriate: Andoral, Razikale, Zazikel-

 

It didn’t matter.

 

“What are my options?” He asked.

 

“You listed them less than five minutes ago.”

 

Dorian mustered a glare that had no visible effect on Solas whatsoever. “Fine. I’d like to know more about my options.”

 

Solas sighed and settled back in his chair. Something about the movement made Dorian think he’d had this conversation before, many times.

 

“The Circle would not force you to convert, but they would demand that you follow their religious edicts. Magic cast with blood and magic that alters another’s mind is strictly forbidden. They are paranoid about spirits and the possibility of possession. Mages are periodically tested for their ability to resist possession, often by placing them in situations where they are likely to be possessed. They are kept under guard at all times and cannot leave the Circle’s grounds unescorted.”

 

“You make it sound so pleasant.” Dorian observed sarcastically and Solas shrugged.

 

“They believe that being born with magic is….a duty to serve others. Many of them fear it, though not to the extent that is common in the south.” He shrugged again. “They serve as healers. They study. They pray. Andrastian mages that are not inclined to such a…monastic lifestyle tend to join the Wardens.”

 

Solas paused long enough to give Dorian an assessing glance.

 

“I would suggest that you’re ill-suited to the Circle Felix.”

 

Dorian snorted. “Is anyone suited to it?”

 

“Some.” Solas replied. “And, unlike the south, they are there because they wish to be.”

 

“They must be mad.” Dorian said looking down at his meal and prodding it with his bread.

 

“If someone is truly free to choose they must also be free to make bad decisions.”

 

A logic Dorian found he couldn’t fault.

 

Solas shook his head. “The Wardens, obviously, are expected to fight demons and close the rifts. Those that survive the Joining are not distinguished by race, background or magical ability-”

 

“Is that a warning that I should brace for taking orders from Soporati?” Dorian enquired.

 

“And Kossith. And dwarves. And elves.” Solas responded. “The current Warden Commander of Hossberg is an Orlesian: Thom Rainier.”

 

An Andrastian Soporati was the unspoken implication. Possibly a traitor to his Empress as well if he had fled to the Anderfels.

 

“Their marks shorten their life expectancy.” Solas added because of course they did-

 

“You’re going to tell me exile in the mountains would be wisest.” Dorian guessed.

 

“It is the most common decision.” Solas allowed. “But I don’t know you well enough to judge whether it would be ‘wisest’ Felix.”

 

Which, Dorian had to admit, was probably right.

 

“There are a dozen cities in the Hunterhorns and they vary. I would suggest that the reason they’re usually chosen is a sense of…normality.”

 

“Normality?” Dorian echoed flatly and Solas gave him a small smile.

 

“In comparison to the Circle’s monasticism and the Wardens.”

 

“A very low standard of normality.” Dorian observed.

 

Solas shrugged. “They are free to pursue most forms of employment, they may live as they chose within their city. Unlike the Wardens they are under no obligation to risk their lives and unlike the Andrastians they may travel within or between the cities as they wish. Unlike both, any wealth they earn is their own to dispose of as they wish-”

 

“But they’re confined to the mountains.” Dorian guessed.

 

Solas nodded. “The Wardens are the only option that would give you a chance of leaving the Anderfels and they likely would not allow it.”

 

So that was that. He could either trust his father had his best interests at heart, despite the evidence, or resign himself to never seeing Tevinter again.

 

“They’re not as safe as foreign towns.” Solas admitted. “There are rifts. Griffins in the mountains and dragons, mostly Kaltenzahn. A large number of dwarven criminal gangs. There is some tension based on race, religion and whether a person is a mage, although it is discouraged by the city guards and for the most part it is not a problem. You’re more likely to be discriminated against for being mzungu-”

 

“For what?”

 

“An old Orth word for a non-Ander.” Solas explained. “Or someone who knows nothing about griffins.”

 

“Which is of course the distinguishing national feature.” Dorian quipped.

 

“Only if you don’t wish to be eaten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal head canon- Solas is possibly Varric's second biggest fan after Cassandra
> 
> Mzungu- is a Swahili word that I learnt from following the MSU hyena blog (a research group based in Kenya in the Mara). They define it as ‘a white person who knows nothing about lions’. Apparently it’s a pretty common term for white people throughout south-east Africa and (according to Wikipedia) it means ‘someone who wanders aimlessly’. White people apparently spent a lot of time getting lost. I prefer the MSU definition and just thought it was too good not to use.
> 
> Relevant Tevene  
> Fasta Vass- An untranslated swearword


	6. In which Dorian has bad dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a crap week. So have an update a few hours early.

His father or the Anderfels. He’d actually started having nightmares about it-

 

Which he hadn’t really given much weight. It was perfectly natural to be…apprehensive, given the situation, and he wasn’t a child needing comfort because he’d let himself get worked up into a state.

 

They bled together in his dreams, so that the Anderfels looked a great deal like the countryside around Qarinus, peppered with green rifts and snarling spirits. They’d chase him home straight into the arms of his father, who was inexplicably covered in blood. As soon as he pointed it out the elves would appear, wrestling him to the ground before hauling him bodily up the stairs towards the room he’d been locked in before. And he’d try to blast them away, but for some reason he couldn’t use his magic anymore-

 

“Stop making such a fuss dear.” His mother chided as they dragged him away.

 

“It’s for your own good Dorian.” His father added.

 

And then he’d wake up, shivering and sweating and feeling like a damned fool.

 

Around the time the nightmares started Solas put aside his book.

 

They spent the next few days almost-but-not-quite coming to terms with the matter. For a member of the Dread Wolf’s army, Solas had a surprisingly large number of complaints about the Anderfels. And yet he seemed to love his country despite it all which was…familiar.

 

It served as a not altogether unpleasant distraction from the fact that time was growing shorter and soon Dorian would have to decide.

 

He didn’t give particular thought to Solas’ motivation at the time; Dorian merely assumed he’d reached the end of the book.

 

-

 

He was in the countryside, near that dratted lake on the estates where his mother insisted the servants take him boating. The rifts appeared one by one, soft tears in the thin fabric of the world and the spirits started flooding out.

 

There was a moment, when they were at the very edge, when they looked almost like people. Then they were sucked through and he watched them twist into corrupted, malformed monstrosities. They reached towards him over a land they’d made dark and ugly. The plants twisted and died under the shadow of their skeletal hands and-

 

“You do realise it’s not actually like this?”

 

He turned and found Solas was standing beside him, his head tilted to one side, examining Dorian’s fears.

 

“Well yes,” Dorian replied. “I’m assuming they’re choosing a setting I’m more familiar with- Or you are, if you’re one of them. Incidentally if you are could you pick a more agreeable form to try and corrupt me with?”

 

“I’m afraid I am what I appear to be.” He paused, looking out across the lake.

 

The sky darkened. The rifts widened. The demons circled them and then-

 

Everything froze.

 

“This isn’t a particular pleasant place Felix.” Solas observed.

 

“Really?” Dorian responded. “And here I’d thought it a wonderful break from the city.”

 

Solas sighed. “Would you like to go elsewhere?”

 

Dorian hesitated, then he glanced back at the spirit’s outstretched claws.

 

“Yes.”

 

-

 

When the world resettled around them it was early evening and the sky was laced with green scars. The grass was taller than it was in Qarinus and had dried to yellows and browns. The trees were smaller half-twisted things that grew in dust covered clumps-

 

The land rose in steady steps into a mountain range before climbing suddenly into a tower of stone. The mountain side was practically sheer and the summit was unnaturally flat. As if a God had reached down and swept the top away.

 

And in the centre, silhouetted against the sky, was a sprawling keep, as much a city as a fortress. Even at a distance the scale of it was phenomenal.

 

“I presume that’s Weisshaupt?” Dorian enquired.

 

“Yes.”

 

If he looked hard Dorian thought he could see Veilfire flickering on the walls. Which was probably a trick of the Fade-

 

“I wonder… how long did it take to cart all the stone up there?” Dorian mused.

 

He didn’t expect an answer but Solas surprised him.

 

“We didn’t. It was made from the mountain.”

 

“The whole mountain?” Dorian asked hesitantly.

 

“Yes.”

 

“But surely- It’s not all a single stone? It is? Fascinating.”

 

He tried to imagine the power it would have taken, the time but he was of course limited to a human frame of reference. The true elves had time on their side and these had had a god to assist them. Still it must have taken years, decades-

 

“How do you get anything up there?” Dorian enquired.

 

“There are roads carved into the cliff face.” Solas replied. “Some tunnels the durgen’len added. Some fly.”

 

‘Some fly’, as if that was a normal use of magic-

 

“This is at the end of bega,” Solas continued. “After the rains this would all be green. There are orchards at the base of the mound but they’ve housed spirits for Ages and they wander.”

 

Which suggested a very….elvhen attitude to spirits. At home they’d have bound the damned things, all the better to stop one’s property from strolling straight on to someone else’s land. Presumably it was also easier to pick fruit when the trees didn’t run away-

 

Andrastians would have burnt them.

 

Dorian sighed and sat in the grass. After a moment Solas sat beside him.

 

“You’re somniari.” Dorian observed.

 

“That is your term for it.”

 

Which wasn’t quite confirmation but since the evidence was obvious-

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you can be unnecessarily obtuse? A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed.”

 

“Felix I didn’t bring you here to discuss my caste, I brought you here because you’ve been having nightmares for days.”

 

“And your view of the Anderfels is supposed to allay my fears?” Dorian enquired in a tone that heavily implied it didn’t…even if that wasn’t entirely true.

 

“It would give you a more restful night.” Solas stated. “However if you wish me to leave-”

 

“No.” Dorian said softly. “Stay.”

 

Solas lay back in the grass and stared at the sky. Dorian leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knees and studied the fortress.

 

There were details in the dream, subtleties, which he was starting to pick out. Spots of green veilfire moving around base of the fort and along what Dorian presumed were the battlements. Bird song and animal calls. A long cry, the wrong pitch to be wolves or dogs howling-

 

“Your fears are perfectly natural.” Solas said finally. “And you know that all of this could be…twisted by my feelings, whether I mean it to be or not. You are intelligent enough not to trust this until you see the fort; awake and with your own eyes.”

 

“You are terrible at offering reassurance,” Dorian observed.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Yes well, I appreciate the attempt at least.”

 

Difficult as it was to admit it was far more than Solas would have received as a prisoner of the Imperium. And probably more than Dorian would have thought to offer if their positions were reversed. He would have been-

 

He would have been sold, at a premium if whoever captured him had learnt he was immortal and a Dreamer. He might have ended up a research project in a prestigious Tower or aimed like a trebuchet against the Qunari or kept in a Temple in the capital as an offering to be bled for the Gods a little at a time. Worse options than the ones he’d given Dorian and no one in the Imperium would have offered an elf a choice-

 

“It occurs to me that I sound extremely ungrateful-” Dorian began.

 

“Felix,” Solas interrupted. “You don’t owe me thanks for not torturing you.”

 

“I- It’s just that, if you had been captured by the Imperium-”

 

Solas smirked. “Then they would have been in more serious situation than they realised.”

 

“You think your- that Fen’Harel would have rescued you?”

 

“He would do everything in his power to ensure my freedom.”

 

Dorian thought of all his pointless prayers to Zazikel and barked out a laugh. He wasn’t sure _priests_ were that certain of their Gods’ will and here was a man willing to swear by the utterly inconsistent Dread Wolf, who apparently objected to being called a god-

 

Dorian sighed. “You’ve far more faith in your superiors than I have in mine.”

 

“Possibly.” Solas allowed. “Though I suspect you’ve dismissed the possibility they’ll raise a ransom too quickly.”

 

Dorian felt his shoulders tense and it really wouldn’t do, he couldn’t afford to show that sort of weakness, couldn’t have Solas start to question him. And if the Anderfels was truly like this then perhaps- It seemed no worse than army camps at any rate.

 

He took a deep breath and forced himself into a less…defensive posture.

 

“Can we talk about something else? If you don’t mind.”

 

“Of course.” Solas replied. “Did you have anything in mind?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

“Really? Not even snide comments about my library?”

 

“Your library, like your taste in furnishings, thoroughly deserves it.”

 

“If you say so.”

 

“I do not ‘say so’,” Dorian objected. “It’s an empirical fact. One that would be immediately obvious to anyone with taste.”

 

Solas smiled and after a moment Dorian leaned back beside him to stare at the green cracks in the sky.

 

“We’re not getting there through those blasted mirrors are we?” Dorian wondered aloud.

 

“Only to get as far as the outposts near Kal-Sharok. We’ll get mounts there and should reach Weisshaupt in a few days.”

 

Dorian nodded absently. He probably shouldn’t wait until they reached the fortress itself but the ride north should be more than enough time to judge whether the country really was as inhospitable as he’d imagined.

 

There was a part of him that couldn’t quite believe he was seriously considering it. But then he thought about home, the speed at which locks had appeared on the outside of his door and the ritual-

 

He wondered if his father had actually been prepared to go through with it, though just the fact that he’d considered-

 

He sighed and settled back into the grass. It was funny really, his father had had his whole life planned out for him from the moment he was born and a complete stranger, a follower of the _Dread Wolf_ , seemed to be going out of his way to give Dorian a choice.

 

It was…funny.

 

He didn’t remember much of the dream after that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on Anderfels climate and inspiration for it
> 
> I based the climate and some cultures of the Anderfels on Ethiopia, specifically the higher altitude central region. I placed the Dread Wolf’s fortress in the kind of environment that’s called Weina-Dega in Ethiopia, which means between about 1500-2300m above sea level. It’s considerably milder than much of the lowlands. There are three seasons. 
> 
> Seasons according to the Ethiopian National Meteorological Services Agency (NMSA) Ethiopia has three seasons based on the average trends of the weather and rainfall.
> 
> Kiremt: mid-June, July, August, mid-September are the months in the Kiremt season. Long and heavy rainfall occurs during these months. Hotter.  
> Bega: October, November, December and January are the Bega season. This is the dry season.  
> Belg: February, March, April, May are the months in the Belg season. Short and moderate rainfall occurs during these months.
> 
> General consensus seems to be that bega is usually cold, may is usually dry and may-july is the hottest time of year. 
> 
> Weina-Dega Environment
> 
> This includes highland areas where the elevation is 1500-2440 metres (about 4920-8000 feet). This is a temperate zone with annual average temperature of 16-20°C (61-68°F) and annual rainfall of about 500-1520 millimetres. Most of Ethiopia's major cities including Addis Ababa, Gondar and Axum are located at elevetions of about 2000-2400 metres (about 6560-8200 feet) above sea level.
> 
> Relevant Elvhen  
> Durgen’len- Stone children. Dwarves
> 
> Relevant Tevene  
> Somniari- Dreamer


	7. In which Dorian makes a decision and names become important

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a tad late. I blame work and general knackered-ness.

Dorian woke from the first restful night’s sleep he’d had in…months probably and wondered if he should have a word with Solas about snooping through his dreams. What if he’d seen Magister Pavus?

 

Then again Solas had said he hardly ever left the Anderfels, so he might not know what Magisterial robes looked like. And even if he did it was only a dream, Dorian could claim that part was as fictional as the rifts in Qarinus.

 

He was halfway through concocting suitable embellishments to his background when he realised Solas wasn’t alone. Solas was having a conversation with someone, loud enough for Dorian to easily overhear. Unfortunately it was in Elvhen.

 

Which probably meant-

 

Dorian took a deep breath and stepped into the library. The conversation stopped and Dorian found he’d won the attention of the largest, most heavily armed and most savage-looking elf he’d ever seen.

 

She was half an inch or so taller than Dorian, encased in a dark plate armour with at least one blade for every limb from what he could see. And she’d apparently had cause to use them if the state of her face was anything to go by. She’d at least eight scars, great black slashes against her burnt umber skin that deformed her nose and brows. Her eyes were as dark and hard as flint. She narrowed them at him, treating Dorian to a glare that could wear through granite.

 

“Felix,” Solas acknowledged, stepping between them. “This is Banal’ras.”

 

“Pleased to meet you.” Dorian responded automatically.

 

She turned her withering stare from him to Solas. He didn’t step back, which had been Dorian’s instinct but Solas’ posture shifted into something slightly more defensive. From the tone of his Elvhen Dorian guessed that Solas was justifying saving his life.

 

Banal’ras crossed her arms, making various weapons and pieces of plating clank, and continued to stare. It was fascinating to watch in a morbid sort of way, like an extremely weak ambient spell of horror. Dorian wondered vaguely if he could replicate it with necromantic techniques while Solas apparently ran out of explanations.

 

She remained silent for the space of five breaths. Then she muttered something that made Solas bristle like an offended cat. Dorian would have found it amusing if they weren’t deciding his fate-

 

Eventually Solas sighed and Banal’ras turned away with a grunt. She slipped past Dorian with a speed he wouldn’t have thought possible in such heavy armour and-

 

And that was that.

 

“We are apparently leaving within the hour.” Solas informed him. “If you wish to bring anything with you I suggest you pack it quickly.”

 

“I…see.” Dorian replied. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could get some shoes?”

 

-

 

The damned-by-all-the-Gods Eluvians were as awful as he remembered. The journey was mercifully shorter or at least it seemed that way. It may just have been that Dorian wasn’t exhausted, injured and somewhat traumatised this time-

 

He stumbled out of the mirror into-

 

It was hot. The sort of heat that you ran into as though it was a wall, the heat from a miscalculated blast of fire or the middle of Ferventis at home. And it was only Nubulis! Gods above-

 

Everything smelt of dust.

 

Solas reached out to steady him and Dorian let himself be steered away.

 

The mirror was set up in the open. An exposed plain that seemed to be little more than red sand and tussocks of dead grass for miles.

 

Solas led him to what seemed to be the only tree in the area. Dorian sat in the shade and waited for the nausea to recede.

 

When he looked up Banal’ras was looming over him.

 

He was wondering if holding her gaze was more likely to be taken as insubordination or respect when she spoke.

 

“Can you ride?”

 

Dorian was so surprised the brute could speak Common that the most he could manage for several seconds was ‘er’. She glared down at him until he managed to communicate that _yes_ of course he could. Her answering expression somehow conveyed that she found the idea of Dorian being competent at anything highly unlikely.

 

He felt a little like objecting, but he was still dizzy from the wretched mirror.

 

After a moment she dropped her pack at Dorian’s feet.

 

“Stay.” She instructed, as if he was a dog, before turning on her heel and trudging off.

 

Solas sighed, shrugged his pack from his shoulders and sat beside Dorian.

 

“She’s like this with everyone.” Solas informed him and Dorian bit down on a not-particularly-wise retort.

 

“Where’s she going?” He asked instead.

 

“There’s a small Warden outpost beyond that hill. They keep some mounts on our behalf; we make sure they have water.”

 

Dorian shut his eyes and leaned back against the tree. “When you say ‘mounts’, please tell me you don’t mean griffins?”

 

-

 

Thankfully Banal’ras did not come back with griffins. Instead she had a particularly stubborn example of a draft horse and a dracolisk. At least Dorian assumed it was a dracolisk. He hadn’t seen many and was vaguely aware that classification of the sub-varieties could be somewhat complex. It was a dark, lithe creature with prominent horns and fearsome teeth. It didn’t particularly resemble the few examples he’d seen in the army but that didn’t exactly rule out an ability to spit fire. Or ice. Or poison.

 

He glanced at Solas. He looked as dubious about the beast as Dorian felt.

 

“Is that,” Solas began carefully. “Actually ours?”

 

Banal’ras grunted what was apparently an affirmative.

 

“I see.” Solas replied and Dorian couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze lingered on the beast’s bone-crushing teeth. “How long have we-”

 

“If you went in to the stables more than once every five Ages you would know.” Banal’ras interrupted.

 

“Ma nuvenin.” Solas sighed.

 

She threw a pair of boots in Dorian’s general direction. They fit, more or less; thank the Gods for small mercies-

 

They loaded the packs, Banal’ras mounted the dracolisk as if it was the most natural thing in the world and motioned Dorian towards the horse.

 

He turned to Solas-

 

Solas nodded.

 

“Are you not-? That is I-” Dorian began haltingly.

 

The idea that Solas might not be coming with them was strangely frightening. He had to remind himself that he didn’t truly _know_ Solas, that the elf was his jailor- But he knew even less about Banal’ras. Solas had always done his best to allay Dorian’s fears. Foolish as it might be he trusted that Solas wouldn’t hurt him and-

 

The thought of crossing the desert without him was unexpectedly terrifying.

 

“I assumed you were coming with us?” Dorian said finally.

 

“I am.” Solas replied and Dorian tried not to let his relief show too obviously. “But I will not ride.”

 

“I…see.”

 

He didn’t. But he clambered on to the horse anyway.

 

He felt rather than saw the spell. A twisting of the Veil that he didn’t recognise, not one of the standard elements, not a creation or entropic working and not a manipulation of spirits. It felt…foreign.

 

Dorian twisted as much as he could in the saddle. In Solas’ place stood a great wolf with black fur and eyes the same blue as the elf’s. He’d heard that the elves practiced different forms of magic, cast spells that seemed unthinkable. He’d assumed the shapeshifting was a legend, why in the Gods names would anyone want-

 

He was still gaping as Solas turned and loped off, a black shape against brown grass and red earth. Banal’ras made a clicking sound to her mount and it trotted after him. After a moment Dorian dug his heels into his horse and they followed.

 

-

 

It got cooler as the day wore on and it took Dorian an embarrassing amount of time to realise it was because they’d spent the entire day going uphill. The grass became gradually taller, although it remained a dried out brown. There were more trees, birdsong, ominous movements in the foliage.

 

It started to feel a lot like several pointless but fashionable summer excursions he’d been forced to endure.

 

Except it was the _Anderfels-_

 

They stopped three times during the day for water and to let their mounts rest. Dorian, through what in hindsight looked like a combination of optimism and foolishness, waited until the third stop before he realised trying to draw Banal’ras into conversation was a hopeless endeavour.

                         

They ploughed onwards until sunset then halted in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. He dismounted when Banal’ras did and kept to the side lines, watching as the elves set up camp with the efficiency of long practice.

 

When he looked back down the dirt trail he could see for miles, watch as the desert rose up and gradually gave ground to plants. Beyond the sloping plain and the true desert he could just make out mountains, as shadows against the shimmering sky. As the sky darkened lights appeared on the land, the Warden outpost by the Eluvian Dorian guessed and further back, towards the mountains perhaps Kal-Sharok?

 

For the Breach-filled, wilderness it was actually quite pretty.

 

There were a scattering of small, thin clouds in the sky and the setting sun stained them a range of striking, saturated colours.

 

For some reason it made it significantly easier not to think, not to worry about the future.

 

He watched until the sun vanished behind the mountains and Solas came to draw him back towards the camp, fire and food and what passed for civilisation in this place-

 

The nights were shockingly cold. It went from a Minrathous summer to a Periventium winter in a matter of hours-

 

At some point while they were talking Solas put a blanket over Dorian’s shoulders. He didn’t think anything of it until the morning when he woke to find he had two.

 

-

 

After two days they reached a proper road. It ran along a plateau that backed abruptly onto jagged mountains tall enough to be tipped with snow.

 

Sometimes, where the mountain face was sheer, there were alcoves carved into the stone. Solas had stopped at some of them but Banal’ras had always driven her mount on and Dorian had reluctantly followed her.

 

They camped by the side of the road. Slept on the ground. Rode for at least ten hours every day and they’d been eating the same rations since they’d arrived.

 

It was so far from his life before, in the Imperium, he wouldn’t have known where to begin listing the differences. By all rights he should have been terrified; the knowledge that he could be _stuck_ in this blasted place for the rest of his life should have sunk in. He should have been clamouring to go home.

 

And yet-

 

He’d thought about it less and less. The nightmares had stopped.

 

He had a feeling that-

 

No. That was ridiculous. He was merely delaying the inevitable because he didn’t want to think about his father. He couldn’t seriously consider-

 

And yet-

 

-

 

“Felix?”

 

He turned and found himself smiling at Solas.

 

“Ah, sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

 

Solas inclined his head. “May I join you?”

 

“Please.” Dorian replied, throwing an expansive gesture over the rest of the boulder as if it was his to offer.

 

He turned back to the view, which even he had to admit was spectacular with the sunset staining the entire plain below them a deep fiery orange. It would have been _more_ spectacular from indoors of course, preferably from a comfortable arm chair with a glass of good red wine, but then one could never have everything.

 

“You’re smiling.” Solas observed.

 

“I always smile.” Dorian protested. “People like my smile. And they should. I –” He leaned slightly towards Solas as though it was quite conspiratorial “– have _excellent_ teeth.”

 

The elf let out a short bark of a laugh and Dorian’s grin widened.

 

He was actually quite attractive; Dorian realised and foolishly wondered why he hadn’t noticed before. He’d probably been too busy fretting about being captured, enslaved, freed only to be taken prisoner, transported to the Anderfels under the watchful eye of the Dread Wolf’s loyal followers- Oh and his father, couldn’t forget that.

 

He felt a little like he’d fallen short somehow. There were gossips back home who would have sworn to Dumat that nothing short of impending death could have curbed Dorian Pavus’ wandering eyes and it was slightly disappointing to find he fell short of expectations.

 

Dorian shifted to watch the sunset again, chuckling darkly.

 

“It’s more peaceful than I expected.” He said after a moment.

 

“We’ve been lucky. There are usually more bandits in the lowlands and we’ve managed to avoid rifts.”

 

“MMmm.” Dorian replied.

 

By rights he should probably have been worried by that reminder of how dangerous the country was. But coming to a decision at last had made him feel remarkably sanguine about it all. There was still the issue of where precisely he was going to go; certainly not the Circle and probably not the Wardens if there were better options available. Solas had said early on that some of their prisoners ended up joining the Dread Wolf but he’d never mentioned what exactly that entailed. Probably best leave that decision until they arrived in Weisshaupt. At least then he’d have a clearer idea what to expect from Fen’Harel’s men.

 

It was wonderful not to be worrying. No gossiping peers, no stifling social expectations, no suitors, no father craning over his shoulder-

 

No looming threat of blood magic rituals or war. No nerve wracking fear that his family would reclaim him from his regiment somehow. Just peace.

 

He could grow to love being Felix.

 

“You know,” Dorian began. “I think I recognise those hills. Is this near Weisshaupt by any chance?”

 

Solas confirmed that it was.

 

“I thought so.” Dorian stated, satisfied. “They were in your dream.”

 

“Very observant of you.” Solas commented.

 

“You say that as if it’s unusual.”

 

“Remembering that level of detail often is.”

 

Solas had a beautiful mouth, Dorian decided. Expressive, gentle, pink. He was almost surprised he hadn’t noticed before-

 

“What’s it like?” Dorian enquired. “The fort I mean.”

 

Solas shrugged. “Anarchic.”

 

“Truly?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And?” Dorian prompted, when the elf didn’t immediately reply he went on. “You know that whatever happens I’ll probably be staying there for a few days. What’s the harm?”

 

He gave Solas his most charming smile. Solas sighed and relented.

 

“It’s like a small city. Crowded, busy, perhaps a more varied population than is usual. Cold at night, hot during the day, especially in kiremt. If the rain is good lichens start to grow on the rock face-”

 

“I was hoping,” Dorian interrupted “For something that would give me an idea of the character of the place. The history?”

 

Solas paused, giving him a dubious look. “Are you…sure?”

 

“Yes.” Dorian responded and then because Solas still had that expression he elaborated. “You don’t have to live a thousand years to be interested in the past you know.”

 

They sat watching the sky grow darker and when they couldn’t see the plains anymore leant back against the boulder to see the stars instead.

 

Dorian listened as Solas gave him what had to be a vastly simplified summary of the last three and a half thousand years. How the fort had been founded shortly after the Dread Wolf’s army was exiled in the only place that had had water at the time. How their dealings with the dwarves had been at best antagonistic before Kal-Sharok split from Orzammar. How the people who’d become the Orth were a mixture of those fleeing the war which created the Imperium and people travelling south from the Donarks. How they had named the place Weisshaupt-

 

It was genuinely fascinating and on a different night, in different circumstances Dorian would certainly have given it his undivided attention.

 

But he kept thinking about- about the freedom of _being_ Felix. He kept coming back to the fact that his father’s Gods-damned ritual was finally, indisputably behind him. He didn’t need to act the Altus anymore and that was enough to make him feel euphoric, practically giddy-

 

He’d heard that…in the south at least men could- that men like him-

 

That in other places it wasn’t shameful. That it wasn’t something to be hidden or disguised and that…that was certainly worth considering.

 

And Solas-

 

He shouldn’t. Every instinct he had, every lesson he’d learnt at home told him he truly shouldn’t. In Tevinter it would have been unthinkable, there were half a hundred reasons why not least that he was an elf, a _male_ elf-

 

There were probably half a hundred reasons why it would be inappropriate here in Weisshaupt’s shadow too.

 

And yet-

 

He shuffled closer, half-listening to how the Qunari invasion of Seheron had wrecked its own kind of chaos in the Anderfels, with fleeing natives and defectors from all sides. His shoulders were broad for an elf and Dorian felt sure that under that tunic he was mostly muscle-

 

He stared for a moment at Solas’ lips before looking sharply away.

 

He shouldn’t-

 

And yet-

 

He had already come to what was probably the most bizarre and dangerous decision of his life. What was one more risk?

 

Dorian steeled himself, glanced across- had Solas noticed? He didn’t seem to have- What if he?- No, Solas wouldn’t and besides he was Dorian Pavus, Altus and Officer in the Imperium’s army. He _should_ be daring-

 

He reached across, slowly, carefully and covered Solas’ hand with his own.

 

Solas stilled.

 

Then his fingers splayed so that Dorian could lace their fingers together-

 

They stayed like that for half the night.

 

-

 

They reached Weisshaupt shortly after noon the next day, with most of the ride spent climbing the steep, winding road up the mountainside.

 

The fortress was as incredible as its reputation.

 

The walls loomed like sheer, impossibly polished cliffs, taller than most houses, a single stone, practically buzzing with magic. If he concentrated he could feel a working running through them, less obvious than the glittering barriers or the quiet thrum of veilfire. The spells on Weisshaupt, like the fort, were sunk into the mountain itself.

 

He was still craning his neck trying to glimpse the top when the doors opened.

 

He’d expected a more traditional, or perhaps a more _human_ , structure. That there’d be outbuildings and houses within the walls under the shadow of a great keep where the Dread Wolf would hold court. Instead-

 

Instead Weisshaupt was a single structure, he’d have called it a tower if it wasn’t so broad and if it hadn’t been linked to the walkways along the walls by bridging archways. There were rather less wolves carved into it than he’d imagined and the architectural style appeared to change at least a dozen times as the thing rose. Or sank. It certainly looked like the gigantic window three floors up had once been the main entrance.

 

He hadn’t expected the sheer volume of people either, or their variety. He’d thought, perhaps foolishly after all that Solas had said, that the majority would be elves. And there were a lot of elves but there were at least as many dwarves and probably slightly more humans as well as the occasional towering horned giant-

 

There were…what appeared to be merchants negotiating wagons through one of the other gates. Children chasing each other, a couple sitting on one of the archways their arms around each other, a loose knot of what he presumed were soldiers arguing over dice-

 

Solas trotted half way across the courtyard before bothering to return to a respectable form. And no one batted an eyelid.

 

“It’s a brave new world.” Dorian muttered to himself and it might have been his imagination but he thought he saw Banal’ras smirk.

 

She dismounted, taking her mount’s reins and when Dorian did the same she shooed him off towards Solas. One of the oxmen had already approached Solas, a massive brute of a man with dark grey skin and metal-tipped horns. They carried on talking as Dorian got closer, hushed Elvhen, or was it Ander-

 

He was working up the nerve to ask what was going to happen next when a red-headed dwarf barrelled up to them and nearly knocked him flat.

 

“Sorry!” She said over her shoulder before turning to Solas with a grin and a level of enthusiasm that was actually rather frightening. “Did you get it? Did you? What am I saying – you’re Fen’Harel, of course you did! Can I see? Please-”

 

She spoke so fast it took a moment for her words to truly register, which left Dorian standing there smiling inanely for a few moments before he realised-

 

Solas sighed. “Dorian-”

 

He was Fen’Harel. _He was Fen’Harel-_

 

And he knew Dorian’s name. The Dread Wolf _knew his name!_

 

“Can you please give Dagna that pack?”

 

Dorian obeyed automatically. The dwarf snatched it from him and rummaged through, producing a smaller bag that looked as though it was full of tiles or crockery. She peeked inside and let out a small squealing noise.

 

“Oh it’s _beautiful_!” She exclaimed clutching the bag to her chest. “I can make something _wonderful_ with this I just know it! OOooooooo if I can connect it to the shards-”

 

“Perhaps it might be best to study it first?” Sol- _Fen’Harel_ suggested mildly.

 

“Well _yes_ of course- maybe if I could break off a sample-” She turned back to the Dread Wolf with a huge smile. “Thank you! This is- I can do _so much_ with this!”

 

She practically skipped away, still staring at….whatever Elvhen artefact was in the bag. He was slightly surprised she didn’t run into anything-

 

“Dorian,” The Dread Wolf said softly. “This is Kaaras Adaar. Da’len, this is Dorian of House Pavus.”

 

The Qunari greeted him in heavily accented Tevene. Dorian mumbled an automatic response and-

 

“Adaar will take care of you while you’re here. Don’t worry,” The Dread Wolf told him and he sounded genuinely…sympathetic. “We’ll contact your people; you’ll be back in Tevinter soon.”

 

Dorian’s heart sank.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Elvhen  
> Banal- Nothing  
> Banal’ras- A shadow  
> Ma nuvenin- As you say  
> Da’len- Literally ‘little child’, a respectful term for someone younger. I’m using it to show closer relationships/kinship rather than literally denote blood descent.
> 
> After some thought I decided Dorian was more likely to be using the old Tevinter names for the months than the Chantry ones. Ferventis is the equivalent of July and Nubulis of March. The yearly calendar, with the old Tevinter and Chantry names plus common holidays, is below.
> 
> 1st month: Verimensis / Wintermarch (Annum: First Day)  
>  2nd month: Pluitanis / Guardian (Annum: Wintersend)  
>  3rd month: Nubulis / Drakonis  
>  4th month: Eluviesta / Cloudreach  
>  5th month: Molioris / Bloomingtide (Annum: Summerday)  
>  6th month: Ferventis / Justinian  
>  7th month: Solis / Solace  
>  8th month: Matrinalis / August (Annum: All Soul's Day)  
>  9th month: Parvulis / Kingsway  
>  10th month: Frumentum / Harvestmere  
>  11th month: Umbralis / Firstfall (Annum: Satinalia)  
>  12th month: Cassus / Haring
> 
> Weisshaupt was heavily inspired by Lallibella and while that isn’t canon descriptions of huge carvings in the nearby Merdaine are, which along with general descriptions of the Anderfels climate and topology is what made me link it with Ethiopia in the first place.


	8. Map of the Anderfels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you there was a map.
> 
> For anyone who's eyesight ain't so great who might be reading this the map shows the rough territories of the 7 most important factions in this alternate Anderfels.   
> At the far south in the Hunterhorn mountains, north of Falon'Din's domain and Nevarra is Kal-Sharok.   
> To the north west of them, in the mountains and low lands clustered around the Anderfel's largest lake are the cities Solas described earlier.   
> To the east, forming a barrier between Tevinter and the Anderfels proper is Fen'Harel's territory and Weisshaupt. It's mostly on a high plateau.  
> Directly west is the territory controled by the Wardens, which hugs the main river (the Latten) quite closely.   
> To the far west boardering the sea, and looping round to the north of the Latten in places is Andrastian territory, although the Chantry in the Anderfels is markedly different to the rest of Thedas in this world.   
> In the center of the country is an uninhabited region, too Blighted and desertified to be regularly occupied.   
> To the north, skirting the Wandering Hills and the Weathered Pass mountains is Orth territory.  
> On the eastern coast, smaller than all the other territories are the Vassoth/ex-Qunari. 
> 
> There are also a lot of notes along the lines of 'Here Be Dragons' and 'Here Be Griffins'. Assume that everything in this version of the Anderfels probably wants to kill you.


	9. In which Dorian finally snaps

He didn’t remember what they’d done with the horse or recall Fen’Harel walking away. Adaar clapped a massive hand on his shoulder and bent so he could look Dorian in the eye.

 

“Are you well?” He asked, overly formal and slightly hesitant, Tevene obviously wasn’t a language he was used to.

 

“I’m fine.” Dorian responded but it sounded slightly shaky even to him.

 

Adaar frowned but he straightened, shrugged expansively and guided Dorian inside.

 

-

 

It was cooler inside the fort. Thick walls, high ceilings, floors of bare stone covered in the dust and dirt of the hundreds of people who’d passed through. Glass-less windows with huge wooden shutters loomed from the outside walls-

 

Adaar didn’t really give him time to linger and examine. They took enough turns to leave Dorian a little disorientated and went up an apparently endless spiral of stairs.

 

They came out in a corridor with a mural running along the wall. Four figures on what looked like a tower facing a looming Dragon…which appeared to be tied in deathroot. He’d never understood Elvhen art-

 

They turned once more into a room that would have been spacious if the furniture hadn’t been built for Qunari. The two outsized beds, wardrobes and table combined with the scattered books and discarded clothing made it seem like half a host was living in there.

 

Adaar cleared his throat.

 

“Hahren, asked me to watch you,” Adaar told Dorian and the Elvhen word slipped out far more easily than the Tevene.

 

“Yes, I gathered that.” Dorian said with a sigh. “Whose bed is that?”

 

“My sister’s. She’s with Hossberg, she will not mind.”

 

“You mean ‘at Hossberg’.” Dorian corrected offhandedly.

 

“Probably.” Adaar admitted.

 

Dorian sat on the bed. It was twice the size it should have been and there was a slightly disconcerting Varghest toy propped beside the pillows. He might have been unnerved by its ludicrous glass eyes if he hadn’t already encountered half a dozen more disturbing things that day.

 

He’d spent over a month with Fen’Harel-

 

He’d personally insulted a _God_ \- Elvhen or not!

 

And Fen’Harel had clearly stolen something from the other gods which meant he’d landed Dorian in the middle of, at best, an Elvhen conspiracy and at worst a prelude to war-

 

And they knew who he was! They knew what he was!

 

They were going to send Dorian home-

 

Adaar sat on his own bed and gave Dorian a pitying look.

 

“What name did he give you?”

 

“Solas,” Dorian grumbled. “And it’s ‘which name’. Would you be more comfortable using Common?”

 

“Absolutely,” Adaar replied, smoothly switching languages. “Would you mind continuing to speak Tevene though? I’m trying to learn.”

 

Dorian sighed. “I suppose I can oblige you.”

 

They lapsed into silence.

 

“He wasn’t lying,” Adaar said finally. “Not about sending you home anyway. It doesn’t take long to arrange, another month at most. He’d have helped you get back sooner if the mission had allowed it.”

 

Dorian closed his eyes. The terrible thing was the Qunari sounded as if he was trying to be comforting- Gods above when he thought about it even the Dread Wolf had sounded as if he thought he was doing Dorian a kindness! Because what sort of person would _want_ to be stuck in the Anderfels? Where the Rifts made sure that half the corpses walked and the corrupted spirits twisted crops into sterile weeds and animals into monsters.

 

What sort of self-respecting Altus would want to be anywhere near an Elvhen god, let alone in the heart of one’s domain?

 

And so they were sending him home-

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Adaar asked.

 

“It’s been a somewhat trying day.” Dorian told him, which wasn’t a lie. “I’d like to rest if you don’t mind.”

 

Adaar shrugged and Dorian lay back and stared at the varghest toy.

 

He tried not to think about his Father.

 

-

 

The next day was…somewhat easier.

 

Adaar followed him through the fort, awkward and apologetic. Which meant that by the evening Dorian wasn’t really afraid of him anymore.

 

“It won’t be long.” Adaar assured him, again and Dorian changed the subject.

 

-

 

The trouble was Adaar _kept_ trying to be reassuring and there were only so many times a day Dorian could stand being reminded that he was running out of time.

 

-

 

He’d been in Weisshaupt four days when Adaar took the initiative.

 

“Do you not want to go home?”

 

Dorian froze.

 

“Why would you think that?” He asked after a moment, clearly although not quite as casually as he’d been aiming for.

 

His throat was dry.

 

“You get nervous whenever anyone mentions it.” Adaar said blandly. “You don’t want to talk about your home or your family. But you’ll talk about other things. So I thought maybe-”

 

Adaar trailed off and shrugged. As if it didn’t matter much. Dorian stared at a fixed point on the wall.

 

“Do you want to go home?” Adaar asked again and Dorian sighed.

 

“No.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Dorian waited but for the longest time Adaar didn’t say anything else. So Dorian tried not to fidget, tried to stay calm-

 

He wondered if they’d lock him up to make sure their ransom didn’t vanish into the plains. He hadn’t really tried to cast with the…thing still around his ankle, he’d learnt from the collar, and without his magic-

 

Without his magic he really had nothing to offer. Any wealth and possessions he was entitled to were half a continent away. His skills were-

 

He had started to wonder if Adaar had guessed what…what he was as well and had half convinced himself Adaar was going to call him an invert when the Qunari spoke again.

 

“Have you talked to Hahren?”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Have you told Hahren you don’t want to be sent home?” Adaar asked patiently.

 

“No of course not.” Dorian responded, more forcefully than he’d meant to but it didn’t seem to deter Adaar in the slightest.

 

“Why not?”

 

He looked so…earnest. As if he honestly believed that _asking_ Fen’Harel for permission to stay in the Anderfels was anything other than insanity. Dorian couldn’t hold his gaze.

 

“Because there’s no point.” Dorian explained in a tone that came out exasperated rather than despairing, thank the Gods. “He’s ransoming me. You do understand that don’t you? And because I _am_ an Altus that means he has a rather convincing financial argument for sending me home at the earliest opportunity. An argument I can’t match with my own coin or counter.”

 

“So, you think he’d just take the ransom and send you back?” Adaar queried, as if it was somehow a difficult point to grasp.

 

“Of course.” Dorian replied. “It’s the only reasonable thing to do.”

 

The silence stretched out long enough that Dorian thought he might have somehow insulted the Dread Wolf in front of one his most loyal followers. Eventually Adaar sighed.

 

“Look you’re a foreigner,” The Qunari began, making it sound as though Dorian was suffering from an unfortunate disability. “So you probably don’t understand how it works here-”

 

He shrugged expansively. “Qunari started raiding the coast here round the same time they started raiding the Rivain. ‘Cept it didn’t go so well for them here. Cos the Wandering Hills is Orth land and they got the Donarks at their back and they had a couple of Ages worth of Vint raids for practice and the Wardens a few days upriver. The Qunari went east and we started getting Tal-Vashoth on the coast instead. Pretty much the whole coast is Vashoth now-”

 

“Fascinating as this history lesson is, do you have a point?”

 

“Anders don’t throw people away.” Adaar stated. “No matter where they come from. People are useful. You want to stay? Any Ander chief would let you. And our Hahren’s as Ander as the Merdaine.”

 

-

 

Which was how Dorian ended up outside the Dread Wolf’s room, trying to persuade himself to knock.

 

There was _absolutely nothing_ to be afraid of. He’d lived with the man for over a month and the worst Fen’Harel was likely to do was refuse. Which would leave Dorian in exactly the same position really: waiting to be shipped back home.

 

He took a deep breath and rapped on the door.

 

-

 

It was smaller than he’d expected, barely bigger than Adaar’s room and clearly his bedroom as well as his study, just to add another layer of mortification to the entire thing. It was neat enough, with rather fewer books and artefacts than Dorian was expecting. He’d expected something more like the library in that blasted safe house, enclosed, full of books, smelling of dust and paper. But the room was quite high, on the outer edge of the fort with an enormous glassless window leading out on to one of the bridging archways from the outer wall.

 

Fen’Harel didn’t bother to look up from his desk.

 

Dorian took a deep breath. He’d only intended to take a moment to calm himself; he’d already had plenty of time to think about how best to persuade the Dread Wolf he should stay. He _could_ do it. The elf wasn’t unreasonable. They’d travelled together for more than a month, there was absolutely nothing for Dorian to be afraid of.

 

He _could_ do it. He would, he had to. After all the alternative was his father and-

 

Fen’Harel spoke first.

 

“I realise that you’ve had an unpleasant two months, Dorian, but you are going to have to be patient. I can’t prioritise sending you back to your family over the- Dorian?”

 

There was a moment that couldn’t be more than a few seconds but felt like an Age where they stared at each other. The Dread Wolf twisted in his chair and Dorian rooted to the spot. Fen’Harel looked shocked and a part of Dorian thought he should be pleased about that. But he’d lost control of his own facial expressions. It was like drifting, floating helplessly just above his own body-

 

He’d slipped.

 

And everything came crashing down-

 

The elves that held him down and the thing like a chisel they used to carve his face-

 

The collar and the cell under Arlathan-

 

His unit dragged away one by one-

 

The locks on his door, his own home turning suddenly into a prison he couldn’t escape-

 

His father’s voice, heated and disapproving. _Get out. You’re no son of mine-_

 

The ritual, a lurking nightmare designed to unmake him and-

 

“ _pleasedon’tsendmeback_.” It came out all in a rush and it sounded young and small and frightened and not like Dorian at all.

 

The rest was a mad helpless mix of ‘pleases’ and ‘I can’ts’ and then Fen’Harel got up and he looked far too tall and it took Dorian a minute to realise that was because he was on the floor-

 

He wasn’t entirely sure how that happened.

 

And he couldn’t- he couldn’t let himself go like this, he was still an _Altus_ and he needed-

 

He needed to be in control. He took a deep breath-

 

Solas was beside him, an arm around his shoulder and Dorian hadn’t the faintest idea when he put it there, just that they were closer than they should be and Solas was murmuring some meaningless, comforting thing and-

 

Dorian breathed out slowly.

 

“I can’t go back.” It was not quite calm yet, but the words don’t bleed together. “My father- I joined the army to get away-”

 

No that wasn’t right. He took another breath.

 

“ _You_ never threatened me. You never tried to _change_ me. And I- I’ve been _his_ prisoner and I’ve been yours and I’d rather- If you send me back he’ll-”

 

He took another breath and it stuck in his throat.

 

“Please don’t send me back.”

 

The hand on his shoulder tightened briefly.

 

“As you wish.”

 

Dorian breathed out.

 

It started to dawn on him that he was apparently in the Dread Wolf’s _bedroom_. That they were alone. That they were on the floor, far too close together and Fen’Harel’s arm was still around his shoulder. Gods but they must have looked-

 

“Your father,” The Dread Wolf said abruptly. “What was it he wished to change?”

 

 If there was ever a question he didn’t want to answer-

 

“I prefer the company of men.” Dorian stated. “My father disapproves.”

 

At least he sounded stronger and surer than he had a few moments ago. Fen’Harel seemed to consider it.

 

“I’m not sure I understand.” Fen’Harel replied, eventually.

 

It made Dorian feel a little like laughing. The god didn’t understand-

 

“ _Men_. And the company thereof.” He declared, a little more forcefully than before but the elf was still looking at him as though he was speaking Antivan.

 

“I’m an invert.” He tried but that didn’t seem to help either-

 

Dorian sighed. “Sex. With men. As opposed to women. Surely you’ve heard of it?”

 

“You’re an esha.” The Dread Wolf stated and he really had no idea what that meant but-

 

“I suppose I am.”

 

He was starting to feel uncomfortable, half in the Dread Wolf’s arms-

 

“And because of this you wish to remain in the Anderfels?”

 

“Yes.” Dorian replied.

 

“Very well.” Fen’Harel rose with a sigh. “I’ll inform our contacts in the Imperium that we were mistaken. The soldier taken from Arlathan was not Dorian Pavus. Dorian Pavus died in Elgar’nan’s temple. Does that suit you?”

 

“I- Yes.” Dorian murmured.

 

He clambered awkwardly to his feet, the Dread Wolf was already back at his desk as composed as if the entire outburst had never occurred and-

 

“Is that all Dorian?”

 

“Yes.” He said softly. “Thank you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Elvhen  
> Hahren- Elder  
> Asha- Woman  
> Isha/Esha- Adjusted from ‘asha’. The idea was to suggest a system similar to more traditional Sanskrit where the literal translation of terms for gender is first, second and third ‘kind’. I used ‘I’ to denote male based on the lethallin/lethallan distinction and ‘E’ to denote neutral based on ‘hahren’ and ‘da’len’ apparently being gender neutral.
> 
> Gender Terms in Sanskrit
> 
> So while this will turn up in the fic (and is explained in the fic) I’d like to make a mention of it here first in case anyone’s unfamiliar with traditional Indian approaches to gender. As I understand it (and I’m not a religious scholar) ‘third kind/gender’ is an umbrella term which essentially means ‘someone unable to have children at childbearing age.’ This can be for physical reasons (ie impotence, repeated miscarriages etc) or for reasons of preference, which include not being attracted to the opposite sex, not being attracted to anyone, being gender-variant and simply not liking penal-vaginal sex. Some third gender states are seen as (possibly) transitory (there is an understanding of bisexuality and that such a person may present as third, first or second kind depending). Some are seen as curable (some of the forms of impotence). In general transgender expression and homosexuality are seen as a set part of a person. It is natural and has a place in society, although that place is not necessarily a high-ranking one.


	10. In which Dorian considers his options and Solas tries to be helpful

Dorian wandered through the fort in something of a daze until Adaar steered him into one of the dining halls, huge communal things similar to their Ferelden equivalent. The Qunari managed to obtain a plate of small pale cakes and dropped them in front of Dorian before interrogating him about every microscopic detail on Fen’Harel and the conversation he’d just had.

 

And _yes_ he’d talked to the Dread Wolf. And _no_ he hadn’t mentioned Adaar. And _yes_ he was allowed to stay. And how in the Gods names had they managed to make cake this sweet, it was like chewing through set honey-

 

He was probably being slightly unfair but it had been a trying day and there was only so much gentle encouragement one could take from a gigantic oxman in a short period of time.

 

Still, he wasn’t going home and for the moment it felt freeing.

 

-

 

Of course that meant he was going to have to decide where in the blight-ridden desert he wanted to end up. When he still knew next to nothing about the place. He was considering getting a map and a set of darts-

 

He was wondering whether he could get away with nailing the little stuffed Varghest to his imaginary map when there was a knock at the door.

 

“Adaar’s not here.” He called in Common but he heard them open the door anyway.

 

“I said-” Dorian began and trailed off when he found Fen’Harel in the doorway with an armful of books.

 

He stared and the Dread Wolf shifted just slightly, a gesture that couldn’t possibly be nervous.

 

Dorian cleared his throat. “I er- are those heavy?”

 

Fen’Harel shrugged. “Somewhat.”

 

“Would you like some help?”

 

“No.”

 

Dorian tried to get out of the way and ended up standing awkwardly near the wall. He wondered if there was any way to apologise for the ridiculous scene he’d made the other day without sounding like even more of a fool. There certainly wasn’t going to be a dignified way to apologise for losing their ransom.

 

“Ser-” He started as Fen’Harel dropped the books on Dorian’s bed.

 

“I asked you to call me Solas.” Fen’Harel interrupted.

 

It rather made him lose his thread.

 

“That’s not your name.” He said eventually and it came out more a statement then a question which was probably unforgivably presumptive and impolite and-

 

“No.” The Dread Wolf admitted. “At least, not by the common definition.”

 

He paused mid-way through arranging the books on Dorian’s bed. “We don’t generally use the name we’re given at birth for the rest of our lives. A…cultural peculiarity.”

 

“I…see.” Dorian replied although he didn’t exactly. 

 

He watched as the Dread Wolf finished neatly ordering the books and straightened. It felt almost foolish, that the silence was so awkward when they’d spent so long in each other’s company when he’d gone completely to pieces at Fen’Harel’s feet more than once now-

 

“Is there nothing you wish to ask?” The Dread Wolf said softly.

 

Dorian sighed.

 

“How did you know who I was?”

 

Fen’Harel shrugged. “I thought I recognised the name Alexius so I contacted some associates in the Imperium. I was told that it is an Altus name and there is a Felix Alexius. I was also informed that Felix Alexius was on his death bed in the Imperium-”

 

He shook his head and turned to look down at the books instead of at Dorian.

 

“It seemed unlikely you would have used his name if you didn’t know each other. And his father took very few students. Only one of whom had joined the Imperial Army.”

 

Dorian closed his eyes. He’d assumed the dreams had given him away but apparently he couldn’t tell a convincing lie if his life depended on it. If it had been someone else-

 

No, he wasn’t going to think like that. He took a deep breath.

 

“So you knew. Right from the beginning-”

 

“And I assumed that the only reason you could have to lie was fear of me.” Fen’Harel said with a sigh. “For that and the distress it caused I am sorry.”

 

He was sorry-

 

Dorian shook his head. The Gods never apologised, they simply acted and you accepted. But he wasn’t particularly religious and Fen- _Solas_ didn’t want to be treated as a god.

 

His father had never apologised.

 

Which was not a helpful thing to think.

 

He looked up.

 

The Dread Wolf was still there and he was practically impossible to read. But he wasn’t standing quite as straight as he tended to and he didn’t quite meet Dorian’s eyes.

 

“I-” Dorian began before realising that he couldn’t think of a single intelligent thing to say.

 

“Did I ever thank you?” He said finally. “For saving my life.”

 

Fen’Harel considered the question, tilting his head slightly to one side and giving Dorian a small smile. “I believe you tried to. Once. And I interrupted.”

 

“Ha! Yes now you mention it that does sound familiar.”

 

He smiled and for a moment Solas was smiling back.

 

“I’ll um-” Dorian cleared his throat and told himself it was because the Godsdamned Anderfels was too hot and too dusty. “I’ll make sure Adaar gets the books.”

 

“They’re not for Adaar.” Fen’Harel stated, picking out a slim black book. “And they are not a gift. I expect them back in the same state they are now.”

 

He reached out to offer Dorian the book. Dorian took it automatically and opened it. It was in Ferelden, handwritten and after all the time he’d spent in that chaotic library pouring over the three relevant books he recognised the style.

 

“Are these Genitivi’s notes?”

 

Solas nodded. “That volume concerns two of the cities in the Hunterhorn range. The brown one is about Weisshaupt and the grey focuses on Hossberg.” He shrugged. “I thought you might find them useful.”

 

“Thank you.” Dorian murmured and Fen’Harel shifted awkwardly.

 

“There are also two books on the Wardens, the Orlesian one is somewhat older and by an Andrastian. Adaar can translate the other. This,” He said, indicating a thick, dull red tome. “Contains the regulations governing the Circle and the Templars. And that’s Kal-Sharok’s guide to the four principal cities in the Hunterhorns and there’s an Orlesian account of the Orth.”

 

“Thank you.” Dorian repeated sincerely. “Not just for the books. For letting me stay. I realise it must be…inconvenient.”

 

He half wanted to ask about the ransom but that was a level of stupidity he wasn’t quite prepared to stoop to. The Dread Wolf sighed and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. As if he was tired.

 

“Dorian you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish,” He began gently. “But-”

 

“You can’t support a ‘Magister’ indefinitely.” Dorian replied flippantly. “I quite understand-”

 

“ _Dorian_.” Solas interrupted forcefully and suddenly he sounded very much like the ruthless military commander his reputation painted him as. “Have you ever owned slaves?”

 

“Have I-” Dorian echoed.

 

“Owned slaves.”

 

“What an odd question.” Dorian observed.

 

“I’d be grateful if you answered it rather than evading it.”

 

Which made Dorian certain that there was a right and a wrong answer-

 

“Not personally no.” He said carefully. “But my family does.”

 

He watched but Fen’Harel’s expression was blank. Eventually he took a deep breath.

 

“ _Fenedhis_.”

 

Which, judging by the tone, was definitely not good.

 

“I don’t entirely understand-”

 

“Dorian slavery is viewed as abhorrent here-”

 

“Well it’s perfectly legal in the Imperium.” He protested. “And anyway they’re not _my-”_

 

“Slavery,” The Dread Wolf interrupted. “Is viewed as abhorrent and a significant proportion of the population are _former slaves_. Many of whom came here from _Tevinter_ which, you might have noticed, we share a border with.”

 

And when he put it like that Dorian felt like an imbecile for not thinking of it earlier. The Fortress was probably full of elves running from bad Masters. Hate-filled, half-wild things that would see him as _the enemy_ -

 

“Ah.”

 

He stared down at Genitivi’s notes and noticed that the man had extremely plain handwriting. When he eventually glanced back up at the Dread Wolf he looked…sad.

 

“Everyone here is under my protection.” Fen’Ha- _Solas_ told him and his tone was gentle again. “But I am not a god. I am not omnipotent. And there is only so much I can protect you from.”

 

“You’re saying,” And Gods why could he not keep the bitterness out of his voice. “That I would have been safer in the Imperium.”

 

“Given the nature of the Anderfels that would be true for any free caste.”

 

“Class.” Dorian corrected. “And now you’re avoiding my question.”

 

Fen’Harel sighed. “No falon. I do not think you would have been better off in a cage.”

 

The tension Dorian hadn’t even realised was there leached out of his shoulders and he slumped. He stared down at the books and-

 

After a moment he heard Fen’Harel move. He put a hand on Dorian’s shoulder and-

 

“I know,” He said softly. “That status does not always protect people from suffering and it often hides its own form of chains. But that is not a truth everyone will understand. Should you chose to remain here you will be asked to prove yourself again and again. Even then a great many will doubt your motives and show you little but hatred. Regardless you should decide quickly.”

 

He withdrew. And Dorian thought about telling him that Dorian Pavus was more than used to being a pariah. But he couldn’t quite summon the words.

 

He watched Solas slip away and after a moment he sat down. He took a deep breath.

 

And started to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Elvhen
> 
> Fenedhis- No literal translation but apparently a pretty standard Elvhen swear word. May or may not involve wolves.  
> Falon- Friend


	11. In which the Anderfels is apparently insane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And next week's chapter title is 'In which Solas is a manipulative bastard'

After two days Dorian had come to some conclusions.

 

One: Andrastians were insane.

 

There was no other explanation for voluntarily ingesting lyrium.

 

Two: the Wardens were also insane.

 

There was no other explanation for voluntarily branding yourself with a mark that would slowly kill you using a somnoborium ‘stolen’ from the Dread Wolf.

 

Three: Orth history could be neatly summarised as them randomly attacking each of their neighbours in turn because apparently living in the Anderfels made you insane.

 

“You could always try-” Adaar began in that helpful tone of voice that Dorian had come to absolutely despise.

 

“If you suggest those Toth-damned hovels on the mountainside again I will throw Genitivi at you.” Dorian warned.

 

Adaar raised his hands and wisely chose to say nothing.

 

“I have _read_ how that works.” Dorian continued. Because it was worth repeating and while doling out a modest sum before leaving them to find their fortune was probably perfectly reasonable for most prisoners-

 

“If the Merchant’s Guild or the Carta didn’t find some delightfully inventive way to kill me I’d have starved to death inside a week and saved them the trouble.”

 

“You must have _some_ skills-” Adaar insisted for the hundredth time and Dorian groaned.

 

“Oh yes! Because the Magisterium is justly famed for creating stable, well rounded individuals with a plethora of useful abilities. Such as the thousand ways to poison your rivals! How to frame your enemies! A million ways to set everything on fire!”

 

“You’re being sarcastic again.”

 

“You noticed!”

 

“I think the fluff on your lip is disrupting your brain.” Adaar informed him thoughtfully.

 

“The best you can do is insult my mustachio? Honestly Adaar I expected better-”

 

“It’s not a mustachio,” Adaar interrupted. “There’s not enough of it. You’re not trying to grow it as a disguise are you?”

 

“No.” Dorian snapped and as soon as he’d said it he knew it was too curt too raw-

 

He took a deep breath. Put the book down before he ended up embedding his fingers in the cover. The marks were gone. Sol-Fen’Harel had removed them, as soon as was reasonably possible. They were gone and it was never going to happen again.

 

“I’m sorry.” He told the Qunari.

 

Adaar waved it away. “Compared to my sister you’re a kitten. You really can’t do anything except magic and Magistering? Don’t you speak a whole lot of languages?”

 

“But not Ander, Elvhen or the Kal-Sharok dialect of Dwarven.”

 

“Oh. Yeah that’d be a problem.” Adaar observed in what was perhaps the biggest understatement Dorian had heard all week.

 

He had just turned back to his book and was wondering why Genitivi hadn’t put anything about his trip to Weisshaupt in the published version when Adaar spoke up again.

 

“You could always learn something.”

 

“Such as?”

 

Adaar shrugged expansively. “I dunno. Something easy, washing?”

 

“Washing.” Dorian intoned in a way that he hoped conveyed exactly how stupid that suggestion was.

 

“Hey I still can’t believe you don’t know how to cook. Hahren taught us when we were seven.” He paused, massive fingers tapping against one horn. “Are you good with animals?”

 

Dorian groaned. “I have no idea.”

 

-

 

Which resulted in a whole day in the stables weathering Banal’ras’ scowls.

 

It was hot, smelly and hard and Gods but he really did not want to have to spend the rest of his life shovelling shit.

 

The animals hated him. Each member of all five species present had apparently separately decided he was the worst human in Thedas and deserved, at the very least, their contempt.

 

A horse trod on his foot and a dracolisk tried to bite him. Which was when Banal’ras relegated him to cleaning the stalls rather than the six dozen other things that required actual contact with the blasted creatures.

 

When he finally slogged back up to Adaar’s room and a marginally sympathetic audience he swore the damned things were possessed.

 

Adaar shrugged. “You made it through the whole day without losing any fingers. That’s something.”

 

-

 

Joining the Wardens would kill him. Going into the Circle would drive him insane. And going to those cities would kill him, just in a rather more roundabout way. He’d run out of money if he didn’t run into wild slaves who’d love the opportunity to do all sorts of unpleasant things to an Altus. Well former Altus at this point-

 

Which left one clear option.

 

“So,” Dorian said as casually as he could. “How did you join the Dread Wolf?”

 

Adaar gave one of his huge half-shrugs. “Ma asked him to take me and Herah.”

 

“Just like that?”

 

“Uh huh.” Adaar confirmed turning back to the books.

 

As though handing your children over to Fen’Harel was a perfectly normal thing to do.

 

“Why?”

 

“Why’d she ask or why’d he take us?”

 

Dorian sighed. Apparently avoiding direct answers was an Ander trait. That or it was another thing the Dread Wolf had taught his Qunari.

 

“Either.”

 

“Family history I guess.” Adaar said vaguely. “Plus the training you can get in Sundarin is really bad. Sort of thing that makes people want to join the Circle.”

 

“You’re a mage?!” Dorian blurted automatically, which in retrospect was neither the most intelligent nor the most dignified response.

 

Gods above did _everyone_ in the blasted Anderfels make a habit of withholding important personal information? Adaar didn’t look even slightly abashed. He just shrugged again as though he couldn’t see why anyone would imagine it was a significant detail.

 

“Yeah?”

 

So he’d spent the last week with a Qunari mage. Generally behaving like a petulant child. And somehow he hadn’t been transformed into a decorative splatter. Wonders truly never ceased.

 

“I didn’t realise,” Dorian began which was rather unnecessary because surely that was obvious- “You don’t have a staff?”

 

“Why would I keep a staff in my room?” Adaar asked curiously and Dorian didn’t really have a good answer for that except that it was what people _did_.

 

And they were straying somewhat from the point.

 

“So you came here as a child?”

 

“Yeah.” Adaar confirmed and didn’t expand on it at all until Dorian came up with a more specific question.

 

The entire conversation was like trying to squeeze water from a stone. But how else was he supposed to find out about Weisshaupt when he didn’t speak Ander and knew a grand total of three people in the fortress? Banal’ras would have been even less helpful, if she’d deigned to answer at all. And Fen’Harel… He couldn’t ask the Dread Wolf.

 

-

 

It took a few days but eventually between Adaar and Genitivi he built up something of an idea of how Weisshaupt worked.

 

Although ‘worked’ was perhaps too strong a term. It all sounded-

 

It sounded as though Solas had been entirely honest when he’d described the fort as ‘anarchic’. They had no clear hierarchy. Which was something both Adaar and Genitivi agreed on: that like the Wardens the people of Weisshaupt didn’t distinguish between races or even between Mages and the mundane.

 

Adaar _said_ they didn’t have any ranks or leaders at all. Genitivi, however, rather strongly suggested that they did and that rather than having a sensible system outsiders could understand they’d developed a rat’s nest of an organisation based on earning the respect of what had to be the most eccentric clan in Thedas.

 

Survival by sodding popularity contest, it sounded just _wonderful_ -

 

On the other hand Weisshaupt didn’t lock mages up like the Andrastians or expect everyone to run _towards_ a demon-spewing Breach like the Wardens. He was probably about as likely to come across escaped slaves in those Toth-damned cities everyone kept suggesting as he was in the fortress and significantly less likely to run into the Carta-

 

More importantly he wouldn’t _starve_ in Weisshaupt so long as he was willing to work. At least according to Adaar-

 

What exactly they’d want him to do was another matter. When he’d finally managed to get Adaar talking it seemed like the Qunari had tried a hand at more or less everything from kitchen work to carpentry-

 

None of it made the least bit of sense. The Anderfels were entirely insane and the Dread Wolf’s fortress was no exception, Dorian was sure he’d swear to it until the end of his days.

 

And yet it seemed the best, or possibly the least unpleasant, of the options open to him and-

 

And Solas had advised him to decide quickly.

 

And dithering outside the Dread Wolf’s door with an armful of books would eventually start to make him look suspicious. He could hardly knock when he was holding- But he could hardly just barge in either and-

 

Dorian took a deep breath and told himself to stop being ridiculous. He put the books on the floor against the wall. In any civilised society leaving books in a pile like that was probably frowned upon, but if Solas could stand that horrendous library then-

 

He knocked.

 

The Dread Wolf called him in and Dorian took another gulp of air. Best to just say it and deal with the consequences. Otherwise, if their last few encounters were anything to go by, Solas would end up saying something…unhelpful.

 

“I’ve come to a decision.” Dorian announced, earning an interested look. “I’d like to stay.”

 

He wasn’t…entirely sure what to expect. Outright rejection was possible but seemed unlikely. If Fen’Harel wanted to get rid of Dorian he’d try to persuade Dorian to leave rather than throw him out, emphasise the dangers or-

 

“You’re sure?” The Dread Wolf asked.

 

“Yes.” Dorian replied firmly.

 

For a while Solas stared at him which should perhaps have been worrying but-

 

He didn’t seem frustrated, angry or disgusted. He didn’t seem like he was about to tell Dorian just how much of a foolish shemlen he was being-

 

He looked…assessing.

 

Then he shrugged and turned back to the letter he was writing.

 

“As you wish.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Tevene  
> Somnoborium- Vessels of Dreams, orbs created by the elves that store power. Used in the worship of the Elvhen pantheon. At least…if you’re in Arlathan.


	12. In which Solas is a manipulative bastard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little later than usual. Bad reactions to tetanus jabs apparently include coming down with a fever.
> 
> Also I know it's only mentioned once that Solas read Varric's book but in my head he's the biggest fan of trashy thrillers in Thedas.
> 
> Edit: OK dumb wording on my part. I don't have a fever, my partner does and that involved a trip to out of hours doctors last night. They're getting better now. :)

Over the next few days a selection of around a dozen strangers all found themselves with a pressing reason to talk to Adaar. Judging by the way they looked at Dorian, showing everything from mild curiosity to revulsion, he was the topic of conversation.

 

It was a rather curt reminder that he really should have made the effort to start learning Ander as soon as he arrived.

 

“They’re trying to work out what you can do.” Adaar explained which was a slightly more reassuring way of phrasing ‘we don’t know what to do with you’.

 

“And I suppose it would just be too much trouble for them to _ask_?”

 

Adaar shrugged. “It’s not just you they’ve got to think about.”

 

Which didn’t bode well.

 

-

 

Banal’ras was willing to listen to Dorian’s questions but rather less inclined to answer than Adaar. Although she did use a generous six words to assure him that he was never ever being put to work with her animals again.

 

Which was something.

 

-

 

After the fourteenth inquisitive Ander, Dorian decided to risk asking Solas what in the Gods’ names was going on.

 

Perhaps… _slightly_ more politely than that. Not that it would make a difference to the Dread Wolf and anyway he was reading a _Tethras_ book when Dorian found him so it practically counted as a rescue mission

 

“You can’t speak Ander.” Solas pointed out without looking up from the novel.

 

Because apparently the continuing misadventures of Donnen Brennokovic were more important.

 

“Yes, I am aware of that.” Dorian muttered with as little sarcasm as he could manage.

 

“Has it occurred to you that most people in this country don’t speak Common?” Solas asked calmly. “They’d have enough trouble finding something useful for you to do but they also need to know you’d understand at least some of the people around you.”

 

Which made an unfortunate amount of sense but-

 

“You make it sound as if I have no skills whatsoever.” Dorian pointed out and the Dread Wolf sighed.

 

“And how many of your skills are not reliant on your magic?”

 

“I-” Dorian began automatically but of course Fen’Harel already knew the answer.

 

He was an Altus. He’d never been taught to cook or clean, plough fields or build houses. He had magic, so he’d never need to learn how to sew a jacket or tan a hide or temper steel. He’d never really thought about it before but now, here, it seemed like a glaring gap.

 

Issues of class aside, no one ever expected an Altus to find himself in a situation where he couldn’t use magic. And it had distressed him at first but now he’d been wearing the anklet so long he’d almost forgotten about it. Even so Dorian had assumed-

 

“You’re not going to take this,” He gestured to the enchanted metal around his ankle. “Off?”

 

Solas finally looked up.

 

“Eventually. But you were part of the Imperium’s army-”

 

“So I have to prove I can be trusted.” Dorian finished. “Marvellous.”

 

Solas gave a small half-shrug and it struck Dorian suddenly that it was exactly the same gesture Adaar used.

 

“Do I have any choice in the matter?” Dorian wondered.

 

“Over what you do?” The Dread Wolf asked and Dorian realised belatedly that however strange the people of Weisshaupt were Solas _was_ their leader and it might have been best if Dorian had kept his fool mouth shut-

 

“Yes. Yes that’s what I meant.”

 

“Everyone here is free.” Fen’Harel stated and it came across bizarrely intense considering that his tone was perfectly calm, his expression polite. “There is always a choice.”

 

“So if your countrymen come up with a suggestion I find untenable-”

 

“Then you are free to leave.”

 

And tackle the wilds of the blighted Anderfels alone. Wonderful-

 

“They won’t propose anything you’re incapable of,” Fen’Harel continued. “And they’ll likely make several suggestions-”

 

“Each of increasing unpleasantness.” Dorian guessed.

 

Solas gave him another shrug and turned back to his book. It was almost funny really, all the stories about the Dread Wolf fighting the Imperium or the Qunari made him sound like a terrifying force of nature rather than an infuriating little sod with no taste in literature.

 

Dorian sighed. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what they might suggest?”

 

Solas frowned mildly and turned the page before answering.

 

“There is a small group of former mercenaries led by one of your countrymen, he was a Soporati and he is an esha. His band lacks a mage.”

 

“If you’re not going to remove the anklet I don’t see how-”

 

“They won’t ask you to fight.” Solas clarified. “For the most part they’ve been guarding merchant wagons. They won’t require more than the low level spells the…anklet allows.”

 

“Barriers and hexes.” Dorian mused. “And I suppose that might come as a surprise if no one in this….band is carrying a staff.”

 

“Just so.”

 

“Hmmm. And what aren’t you telling me?”

 

He caught a brief flicker of a smile before Solas glanced up with an expression of perfect innocence.

 

“Now why ever would you think I’m withholding something?”

 

“We’ve met.” Dorian observed drily which earned him a proper smile.

 

The Dread Wolf didn’t smile nearly often enough-

 

“There are less dangerous things that they’ll probably suggest based in the fortress itself. But they’re unlikely to earn you anyone’s respect or trust quite so quickly. You’d spend longer wearing that anklet and I imagine you’d find some of them demeaning-”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Have you ever worked in a sewer before?”

 

Which was not something Dorian particularly wanted to picture.

 

“That would actually earn you a great deal of respect,” Solas mused with that infuriating smug smile, as if he was taking great pleasure from imagining Dorian waist deep in effluent. “But it wouldn’t prove you could be trusted with full use of your magic or silence the somewhat inevitable suggestion that you’re a Tevinter spy-”

 

“What was the name of that mercenary?” Dorian enquired before Solas could suggest something even more mortifying.

 

“Cremisius Aclassi.”

 

-

 

Aclassi was…not exactly what Dorian had been expecting. He’d imagined a grizzled sword-wielding veteran with as many scars as Banal’ras and perhaps an eyepatch. A strong, silent sort of man with grey in his hair.

 

Cremisius, Krem, was young, fresh faced and carried a maul he looked too small to lift. He was…a boy. In plate armour. In the sweltering Anderfels heat.

 

It was a wonder it hadn’t rusted on to him.

 

He also had a disconcerting habit of glancing across at Dorian as if he thought the walk out of Weisshaupt alone would be too much for a delicate, wilting Altus. It wasn’t _that_ long a hike, downhill the whole way and his pack was smaller and lighter than full army regalia had been. It was the heat really that was the problem-

 

There was a large caravan waiting at the foot of the mountain, two brontos drawing it, hitched side by side. Unusual, but given everything Weisshaupt and the Dread Wolf had introduced him too recently it was hardly worth raising an eyebrow. It made a strange sort of sense, Dorian supposed, beasts the size of brontos could probably haul more than horses.

 

The people he was going to spend the next month or so with were of rather more immediate interest. And if the way they’d chosen to come out and mill around the wagon was any indication they were at least as curious about Dorian as he was about them.

 

There were three dwarves, a human and an elf. He was going to have to learn to stop being surprised by the number of dwarves-

 

And one of them had a rather prominent Carta brand on her face, just below the right eye. Which rather ruined Dorian’s plan to avoid homicidal criminals but she looked more amused than murderous so perhaps it would be alright. The other dwarves, a heavyset man with thick black braids that hugged his scalp and a dark skinned woman with short, wild black hair, were both mercifully unmarked. They both seemed to have decided an Altus was extremely underwhelming while the elf behind them glowered as if it was the only expression he was capable of.

 

An odd looking creature: white hair his face didn’t look old enough for and curling white lines over his pale skin. Dorian would have guessed they were vallaslin or the remains of such, except the lines were raised more scar than tattoo and they continued down past his chin over his neck under his armour-

 

And he truly did not seem the sort of man it was wise to stare at. Dorian tore his eyes away.

 

The woman at least didn’t look as though she wanted to murder him. Her red hair appeared to be gradually growing out, a few messy braids woven into it in what might charitably have been called Ferelden ‘style’. But she was smiling at him, open and welcoming. Beside the glaring elf, the pair of apathetic dwarves and the Carta chieftainess laughing at his expense the woman was something of a relief-

 

“You must be the new mage.” She stepped forward offering a hand which Dorian took somewhat automatically.

 

“Ah yes-” He wondered briefly whether he should attempt to be ‘Felix’ again but- “Dorian Pavus at your service.”

 

“Nightingale.”

 

The elf huffed. The Carta woman’s smirk grew and Aclassi stepped in.

 

“Alright, let’s get moving sometime today.” There was an edge to the boy’s voice that made Dorian want to stand straighter. “Brosca, Leliana scout ahead. Fenris can you ride up front?”

 

The elf gave Dorian a final scowl and stalked off towards the brontos while the woman who’d introduced herself as ‘Nightingale’ and the dark skinned dwarf circled round the back of the wagon. Cremisius pushed past Dorian and he hadn’t been told what he should be doing and he’d never protected a caravan before but-

 

“Hey Vint,” The Carta dwarf called and apparently that was him? “This way.”

 

-

 

She guided him to the back of the caravan and they settled amongst the crates and barrels. After a while the wagon started to move, slowly at first but gradually it picked up pace, jolting and juddering this way and that. He wondered whether it was because of the brontos drawing it or the dirt tracks the Anders probably regarded as roads.

 

He watched Weisshaupt recede further and further into the distance and sighed.

 

“I didn’t catch your name.” Dorian said finally, because if he was going to be spending the next few weeks in close proximity to these people that seemed the very least he could do.

 

“I didn’t throw it.” The dwarf replied.

 

“Oh- I-” Dorian stuttered and the woman let out a small, vindictive ‘ha’.

 

“Jarvia.” She paused, smirking, and Dorian wondered if she was waiting for him to recognise the name. “And Krodha here, you know what Anders are like-”

 

He vaguely remembered Fen’Harel saying something about…nicknames he supposed, which might explain why this Leliana had felt the need to call herself ‘Nightingale’-

 

“Don’t speak much Ander do you?” Jarvia observed.

 

“No?” Dorian admitted and when she didn’t expand- “Why do you ask?”

 

“Krodha,” The dwarf repeated with the same, sharp smile. “Rage. Like the demons.”

 

“Ah.” Dorian said and her grin widened.

 

It seemed almost like a challenge as though she was daring him to run back up the mountain and hide behind Weisshaupt’s white walls. It struck him that that was very…Ander. So many of his early conversations with the Dread Wolf had, in hindsight, been challenging him to tell the truth. So much of Banal’ras’ silent scorn seemed intended to provoke its target into proving their worth-

 

Proud, savage, Anders, daring the soft foreigner to keep up.

 

Well he’d been warned and if posturing at dwarven murderesses was what it took to stay out of the Imperium then by the _Gods_ Dorian would show them how it was done.

 

He tilted his head to one side, as if he was considering her.

 

“I’m not sure it suits you, you know.” Dorian told her casually. “You certainly smile much more than any Rage demon I’ve ever met.”

 

“You haven’t seen me fight.”

 

“No,” Dorian admitted. “But I imagine you’re somewhat less prone to setting everything on fire with your mind.”

 

“Not for lack of trying.”

 

“Well it _is_ important to have ambition in life.” Dorian mused. “Perhaps you could invest in one of those Qunari canons?”

 

It earned him a rather more genuine smile and a bitter ‘Ha’.

 

“You aren’t as nervy as the last mage I’ll give you that.”

 

“Well I was part of the army, even if it was briefly.” Dorian explained. “I’ve seen combat. Bandits and demons shouldn’t be a problem. Although they’d be even less of one if this blasted contraption had been-”

 

“The bandits aren’t your problem.” Jarvia interrupted and she’d turned to face him with an oddly calculating expression that made Dorian worry.

 

“I thought the entire country was rather-”

 

“Oh we’ll run into some,” Jarvia assured him with a dismissive gesture, as though armed brigands were on par with troublesome weather. “But that’s not what you’re here for.”

 

And if that didn’t just fill him with dread-

 

Now that he thought about Solas hadn’t actually _said_ that they’d want Dorian to fight, he’d assumed and…

 

And the Dread Wolf had replied with something non-committal but suggesting agreement. He should have spotted it-

 

For whatever reason Solas wanted him to be here.

 

“Well then clearly there’s been some sort of confusion.” Dorian said mildly. “I hope you didn’t want a healer because I’m afraid-”

 

“Ice.” Jarvia snapped.

 

“I’m sorry I don’t-”

 

“Your _job_ ,” She enunciated in a tone that made Dorian wonder if politeness offended her. “Is to make ice.”

 

It didn’t make any more sense when he thought about it.

 

“Is that a joke?” He asked and Jarvia practically snarled.

 

“How much do you think brontos _drink_?” She snapped. “We’re in a Blighted _desert_. It takes ten days to get where we’re going and if we carried water for seven people and two brontos we’d hardly get any supplies in at all.”

 

“I-” Dorian began and trailed off because clearly he had no idea what was going on and it was hardly his fault and-

 

Then an entirely sensible and somewhat urgent question occurred to him.

 

“Why, would any mage be nervous about making ice?”

 

Jarvia let out another short barking laugh and sat back against the crates. She looked as though she was enjoying all of this far more than was seemly.

 

“They didn’t warn you?”

 

“About?” Dorian asked wearily.

 

“Fenris,” Jarvia answered with a smile.

 

Then she started telling him about how he could look forward to spending the next ten days in close proximity with an ex-elven slave who had escaped from Tevinter. Where he’d been used as a test subject. By mages. Which had left him with the ability to become insubstantial and a prejudicial grudge larger than a list of Orlesian scandals.

 

Oh he was going to _kill_ Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Elvhen  
> Asha- Woman  
> Isha/Esha- Adjusted from ‘asha’. The idea was to suggest a system similar to more traditional Sanskrit where the literal translation of terms for gender is first, second and third ‘kind’. I used ‘I’ to denote male based on the lethallin/lethallan distinction and ‘E’ to denote neutral based on ‘hahren’ apparently being gender neutral.  
> Vallaslin- Blood writing, facial tattoos signifying a particular Elvhen God, applied to slaves
> 
> From Hindi or Sanskrit  
> Krodha- Anger, but perhaps more accurately the sin of wrath
> 
> Notes on water
> 
> So (as I mentioned to some of you) I grew up in Saudi Arabia and I think petrol is still cheaper than water there. Drinking bottled water was normal and we tended to regard tap water as untrustworthy. Which means I have a rough idea how much water a family of five drinks in a week and how heavy it is. In a lot of cities water was driven in by truck every day. It might seem like a simple or stupid thing but in a desert country this sort of application of ice magic would certainly save money and lives.


	13. In which Dorian says the wrong things

After the first day it all began to blur together. For the most part caravan life consisted of a rather monotonous wait to reach the place they were actually trying to get to: with the tedium occasionally broken by bandits, lesser demons or, Gods-forbid, interaction with the rest of Aclassi’s not-so-merry-band.

 

He’d come to know most of them more by observation than conversation. And, well, if Dorian was being entirely honest eavesdropping and gossip had probably also played a role-

 

Jarvia was certainly talkative. So was Leske although he generally spent a lot more words saying a lot less, which might have explained why the Anders had dubbed him ‘Starling’.

 

Brosca was not nearly as chatty although she seemed to have a certain affection for Leske and an infatuation with Leliana she didn’t bother to hide.

 

Fenris avoided him entirely, a situation Dorian suspected Aclassi was actively encouraging but then again the Soporati seemed rather suspicious of Dorian himself so-

 

And there was Leliana, who he strongly suspected was going out of her way to be friendly out of pity-

 

She was a lively conversationalist at least and, unlike Jarvia, Leliana was enthusiastic about helping him learn enough Ander to survive. She seemed to get along with everybody, all genuine smiles and sincere interest. It made Dorian wonder just how genuine it really was.

 

Which made him suspect he’d spent rather too much time observing Tevinter politics.

 

Jarvia was simpler: she didn’t like anyone and she didn’t bother to hide it. But she seemed to enjoy a certain amount of…repartee. Dorian was almost surprised to find her mostly agreeable company-

 

Even if she insisted on being as obnoxious as possible about the ice.

 

The Gods-damned ice-

 

He’d honestly had no idea people drank so much until he became Aclassi’s mobile well.

 

If he thought of it by size, bricks of ice piling slowly up, their group probably drank enough to make a stack as tall as Dorian every day. The brontos drank twice that. Each.

 

Gods he was so sick of making ice he almost wished he was back in the army.

 

-

 

“So,” Dorian asked finally after, oh, three days trying to work up the nerve. “Are you from Orzammar?”

 

Jarvia paused, whetstone half way over the axe blade. Did they all really need to fiddle with their weapons so often? Or was the constant sharpening, cleaning and polishing just an attempt to stave off the crushing monotony of the journey-

 

“I’m _casteless_.” She stated.

 

Perhaps silent boredom would have been wiser, it was certainly safer if the tone of Jarvia’s voice was anything to judge by. But trifling things like safety and common sense hadn’t stopped Dorian Pavus from asking awkward questions before. Of course previously he’d been protected by his status….or with the Dread Wolf. Who was apparently impervious to most insults. Which had perhaps lulled Dorian into a false sense of security-

 

He pressed on anyway.

 

“But you’re from Orzammar?”

 

“I’m casteless,” Jarvia repeated putting the axe aside. “You know what that means?”

 

“I suspect you’re going to tell me.”

 

She turned to give him one of her sharpest smiles. “I was born in Orzammar. I spent most of my life in Orzammar. But you’re born casteless then you can’t be _from_ Orzammar cos the casteless don’t have a fucking place anywhere.”

 

She paused for a moment, fingers drumming on the edge of the wagon. “They brand you when you’re born so no one will ever mistake you for a person. You can’t walk through most of the districts and no one’d ever give a duster honest work. They make us beggars and criminals-”

 

Jarvia trailed off and Dorian found he had very little idea what to say. She wouldn’t respond well to sympathy after all.

 

“We get dwarves in the Imperium,” He observed finally. “Traders for the most part. They gave me the impression that the…brands marked someone as a member of the Carta-”

 

She barked out a quick, vicious laugh. “I wasn’t _just_ a Carta moll, boy, I was _the_ Carta. Queen of sodding Dust Town until Harrowmont got some shem Warden dancing to his tune.”

 

Her smile widened for a moment, probably in response to the look on his face.

 

“If you’re that surprised you’re dumber than Leske thinks you are.”

 

“I-no,” Dorian protested weakly. “I’d have thought most dwarves would be…uncomfortable around the Carta-”

 

“Shows what you know,” Jarvia shot back. “Brosca and Leske are mine-”

 

“And I didn’t realise they let women lead the Cartas.”

 

Her smirk faded and she twisted back to watch the road.

 

“Men might run the Carta but the women are the Stone.” Her fingers brushed briefly over the mark, the _brand_ , under her eye before coming to rest on the axe handle beside her. “Any duster with the sense of a drunken nug knows you don’t mess with a Carta woman, we’re the closest damn thing any of them get to the Ancestors smiling down.”

 

It took Dorian a moment to make a modicum of sense out of it all. Something about the impoverished peons of Orzammar relying on each other, he supposed. She’d been a violent thug and thought, somehow, that it was a good thing. Even when she’d apparently been sent running for her life by the King of Orzammar, a Carta reduced to three.

 

He was never going to understand Anders and apparently he didn’t understand dwarves either.

 

“Why did you keep the brand?”

 

“Because it’s what I am pretty-boy and I’m not about to forget it.” And then she was smiling again, hard and tight. “I’m going back one day.”

 

“To throw yourself on the King’s mercy?” Dorian enquired blandly. “I doubt that’s wise.”

 

“I’m going back,” Jarvia insisted. “And I’m going to beat that bastard to death with his own crown. After all he did to us it’s the least he deserves.”

 

She seemed utterly, serious.

 

“Nothing to say?” She challenged.  

 

Dorian sighed. “Well I imagine I’m supposed to protest at your vile criminal ways but I suspect that would be somewhat hypocritical given how much I’m currently relying on them.”

 

It startled a genuine sounding laugh out of her.

 

“I suspect I’m also supposed to tell you regicide is an impossible goal,” Dorian continued. “But until rather recently I’d have said the Dread Wolf bothering to rescue a human personally or anyone volunteering to live in the Anderfels was just as absurd.”

 

He shrugged and gave Jarvia his best self-depreciating smile. She snorted and turned to look out over the road again.

 

The wheels really did kick up an incredible amount of dust. If it wasn’t for the blasted anklet he could have done something about it-

 

“In Tevinter you mages are like Noble Caste aren’t you?” The deposed Queen of Dust Town murmured.

 

“Not precisely the same, not all mages are equal.” Dorian replied. “But if you’re asking about me…yes I suppose it’s not an awful comparison.”

 

“And you threw it all away.” She stated, still staring out over the road.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Without going into the graphic details? There’s a great deal that’s wrong with my homeland and I…simply couldn’t stand it anymore.”

 

“According to Fenris there isn’t anything right with ‘your homeland’.” Jarvia told him flatly.

 

“And you listen to him often?”

 

“Only when the beer doesn’t drown him out.” She admitted making Dorian smile. “You can’t go back?”

 

“No, they think I’m dead. And even if they didn’t,” He shrugged. “I burnt my bridges some time ago.”

 

“Noble who ran away topside.” Jarvia muttered thoughtfully.

 

He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by it. She looked at him for a moment, as though she was reassessing him.

 

Then she nodded once and went back to sharpening the axe.

 

-

 

From the moment Dorian had found out about Fenris some form of confrontation had seemed inevitable. He had waited and waited but it hadn’t come. No shouting, no accusatory rant, no sword or fist coming suddenly out of the dark.

 

He hadn’t spoken to the elf at all, had rarely seen him for that matter. Aclassi or sometimes Brosca would take Fenris his share of ice and when they stopped for the night Fenris didn’t linger near the fire.

 

Dorian had been almost glad of it until he started to consider what the cause might be.

 

From everything Jarvia had said it seemed unlikely the elf was trying to spare them all a scene and he’d certainly driven mages away from their eclectic band before. It was possible that Aclassi had ordered him to stay away but that didn’t sit well with the kind of commander Jarvia thought Cremisius was.

 

And then it occurred to Dorian that it might have been…fear.

 

The thought made him uncomfortable. But it made a degree of sense. Fenris had been mutilated by mages, by a man of Dorian’s race and nation and class. It was natural, as natural as Dorian shrinking from an elf with Elgar’nan’s marks-

 

And somehow that made him want a confrontation. Something that could clear the air, that could show this strange, wounded man that Dorian wasn’t-

 

Some scandal sheet parody of an evil Magister.

 

It was somewhat less amusing when the person in question had belonged to-

 

Had been used to-

 

Was also from Tevinter.

 

All of which led, somewhat predictably, to Dorian spending a large portion of his evening distracted, paying less than adequate attention to Leliana’s language lesson and glancing periodically in the direction of Fenris’ back. He hoped that wasn’t giving the wrong impression.

 

He was really going to have to learn to leave well enough alone. Or develop the courage to actually act sooner. Wasting the evening dithering was just unbecoming.

 

-

 

Fenris did not turn as Dorian approached. He didn’t respond when Dorian stopped, close but not quite close enough to touch.

 

Dorian shifted from one foot to the other and waited.

 

The nights were noisier than he’d expected: full of screaming calls from the wildlife punctuated by the long low whoops of predators. They’d had little more than the occasional shrieking owl in Tevinter. Not that it was really possible to forget you were in the Anderfels with the heat, the constant dust and the green flickers of the thin Veil tracing light ribbons in the night sky.

 

Dorian took a deep breath and Fenris interrupted him.

 

“What do you want, mage?”

 

The elf’s voice was deep, rich and almost musical. It would have been lovely if his tone hadn’t made it sound as if ‘mage’ was a form of persistent pond scum that had found its way into his wine.

 

Dorian swallowed. “I…thought it might be best if we cleared the air.”

 

“Did you.” Fenris stated flatly and this was a terrible idea and if he had an ounce of sense Dorian would have turned and left at least five minutes ago but-

 

But this was the root of every problem he’d face in Weisshaupt. This was why the Dread Wolf had wanted him to join Aclassi’s wretched caravan: so that Dorian could prove to the uncivilised Anders that he was…more than simply a slave owning Magister’s son. Fenris was a trial by fire and the Anders respected men that didn’t flinch.

 

Dorian took a deep breath.

 

“I don’t know how much you’ve heard about me or whether any of it’s actually true so I suppose it would be best to start with the facts. I was an Altus. My father is a Magister. And my family does own slaves. I’ve been estranged from them for years, I joined the army and-” He sighed. “I was captured at the Arlathan border. Endured Elgar’nan’s questionable hospitality for two weeks then _I_ was enslaved and marked, albeit briefly.”

 

He paused, studying the elf, but Fenris hadn’t moved and his expression hadn’t changed.  

 

“My point is that I understand you’ve suffered. And I’m no more eager to return to Tevinter than you are.”

 

The elf still didn’t move. But then his grip on his, frankly somewhat ridiculously large, sword hadn’t changed, which was probably a good thing. The silence stretched growing even more awkward. Dorian resisted the urge to fidget.

 

“So,” Fenris intoned finally. “You’re a fool.”

 

“I- beg your pardon?” Dorian stammered but it hardly mattered because the elf continued over him, his voice hard and relentless.

 

“It is not comparable mage. You chose to leave a life of luxury and privilege you earnt by being a threat to those around you. You suffered a fraction of what occurs in Tevinter every day for a moment and you think it is equivalent to a lifetime. And you expect, what? That this has given you _understanding_? You are a fool.”

 

Dorian took half a step back and Fenris turned.

 

It was amazing what emotion could do to a man’s face. He’d looked quite handsome before, from the glimpse Dorian could remember catching, but fury made him even less appealing than a woman.

 

“Do you want my sympathy, _mage_? Because the Magisters found one horror out of hundreds you couldn’t bear to face? Or my _forgiveness_ because you were too cowardly and too weak to even attempt to help the ones who would actually _suffer_ it?”

 

Fenris stood. And, though it took effort, Dorian did not step back and he did not look away.

 

“You say this about mages and yet you joined the Dread Wolf.”

 

“Fen’Harel is not _weak_.” Fenris practically snarled.

 

Which was hardly the point-

 

“I had assumed you might be…apprehensive about my presence-” Dorian attempted to explain.

 

“You mean afraid.” The elf corrected.

 

“My intention,” Dorian continued. “Was simply to reassure you that I am not-”

 

“But you _are_ , mage.” Fenris stated simply. “And I am not afraid of your kind anymore.”

 

They stared at each other for a moment more before Dorian looked away.

 

“Well, this was a complete and utter waste of time.”

 

“On that at least we are agreed.”

 

-

 

It was obvious something was wrong well before they reached the village. So obvious that Aclassi had them stop the wagons and sent Brosca on ahead. And Dorian had hardly been in the army for long enough to be an expert, but the open approach to the village seemed the perfect place to run down a slow, unwieldy caravan or two.

 

He said as much to Jarvia and when she didn’t quite take the hint badgered her into giving him some form of weapon. She eventually handed him a dagger with a smirk and a condescending instruction to hold it at the blunt end.

 

They waited.

 

And waited.

 

Brosca still hadn’t returned when the sun started setting. Which Dorian found more than a little discouraging.

 

From somewhere deep in the evening gloom a hyena whooped. And beside him Jarvia stiffened.

 

“What-” Dorian began.

 

“Shut it, Vint.” Jarvia replied, not entirely without affection. “I need to listen to this.”

 

Then she cupped her hands around her mouth and gave a low whoop of her own in reply.

 

Of course, it was so childish and savage he should have guessed-

 

When Brosca strode out of the gloom there was a hyena by her side. Dorian went frantically and instinctively for the dagger, for as much fire as he could conjure and-

 

Then of course he remembered just how casually Weisshaupt had reacted to Solas turning into a wolf.

 

“Is that-” Dorian began.

 

“One of our mages.” Jarvia confirmed. “And if it’s who I think it is-”

 

“Let me guess,” Dorian interrupted. “Then there’s trouble ahead?”

 

“That.” She allowed. “And he won’t take offence at you reaching for a dagger.”

 

“Glad to hear it.”

 

-

 

They ended up clustered in a circle to one side of the wagons, Brosca too close to Leliana and all of them looking apprehensive. The hyena turned into an elven man with a face several shades lighter than the rest of his skin and a disconcerting smile.

 

They talked in Ander, too fast and complex for Dorian to follow properly. And they were using those Gods-damned nicknames to refer to each other so he wasn’t even entirely sure who they were talking about-

 

He really had to stop staring at the man’s oddly-coloured face.

 

“What’s going on?” He asked Jarvia in a low hiss.

 

“Town was attacked.” She replied in a whisper. “Some people are missing. Probably raiders from across the border.”

 

“Across the- we’re _near Tevinter_?”

 

“We were heading east for almost two weeks, where’d you think we’d end up genius?”

 

He opened his mouth to answer and Jarvia elbowed him.

 

They talked around him. Well strictly speaking the elven mage did most of the talking, with Aclassi coming a distant second and the occasional comment from Leske or Leliana. Jarvia provided occasional translation.

 

“They think it’s slavers.”

 

Wonderful.

 

“Heading back towards the border, he figures he knows where they’re holed up.”

 

Which was probably actually a good thing except-

 

“And we’re going after them.”

 

Fantastic, a fight with what might well be a small band of deserters spitting distance from the border. Exactly what he needed and oh Gods above the Dread Wolf couldn’t have planned for _this_ as well could he?

 

“I assume he’s going to take this,” Dorian gestured vaguely down towards the anklet. “Off?”

 

And of course rather than just tell him her opinion Jarvia spoke up and cut across the relentless flow of Ander to ask.

 

The mage’s head jerked round so that he was staring straight at Dorian. Dorian tried to hold his gaze-

 

The…colour on his face was a red like terracotta compared to the dark, almost blue, tone of the rest of his skin. It ended far too neatly at his forehead, before his ears and at his jawline to be natural, like a cosmetic applied carefully but in poor taste or-

 

A vallaslin.

 

The thought was enough to make Dorian feel cold. He wished he could understand what the mage was saying, and that the man would stop staring at him, would stop _smiling_ -

 

“No.” Jarvia translated.

 

“All that means ‘no’?”

 

Jarvia snorted. “You and Fenris are taking the wagons into town. The rest of us are going after these len’alas.”

 

“I…see.” Dorian murmured.

 

“He’s turning us into birds so we can get there faster.” Jarvia explained as if it was the _normal_. “The lyrium in his skin and the enchantment in that thing you’re wearing would interfere.”

 

So they were leaving him alone with _Fenris_ instead. Dorian sighed and the elven mage started talking again.

 

“Oh and he thinks you’re pretty,” Jarvia put in. “So he asked Fenris not to cut you up too bad.”

 

“Please thank him for being so reassuring.” Dorian hissed sarcastically.

 

“Welcome to the Anderfels.” Jarvia murmured in reply.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anderfels Fauna-
> 
> On the off chance anyone is interested the night-time noises Dorian hates are caused by hyrax and spotted hyena. The spotted hyena has several calls, the most common is a rather pleasant ‘whoop’. Hyrax on the other hand, despite being small cute fluffy-rabbit-like creatures, sound like something from a horror film or an alien invasion. The hyrax is a doom animal.
> 
> Relevant Elvhen  
> Shem- literally 'quick' shortening of 'shemlen' which is a quick-child or human. The shortening appears to be more derogatory.  
> Len'alas- Literally 'dirt-child' I use to mean 'bastard' or similar.
> 
> Some of the comments about the Carta came from Dragomir's 'Stocks' series (with permission). I'm not going to link the series because it's non-con and I realise that ain't everyone's bag. But Dragomir is here (http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir) and they're pretty awesome.


	14. In which Dorian does something very stupid and is rewarded

It was only as he drove one of the wagons in that Dorian realised how disquietingly silent it was. The raid must have driven off the local wildlife and without Leske’s chatter, Leliana and Brosca’s whispering the lack was…

 

Magnified.

 

He reached the village just ahead of Fenris and the second wagon, loitered unsure what exactly he was supposed to do-

 

So he let the elf take charge. Fenris hopped neatly down from the caravan, giving orders to the scattered villagers in curt Ander. Within a very short time he appeared to have organised the unloading and dispersal of the damned supplies.

 

It was all disgustingly efficient.

 

Dorian watched in a detached way, vaguely aware that he should probably assist and reasonably sure that he’d just end up getting in the way. The village was much more…what one would expect from the Anderfels. A cluster of small, undecorated, windowless, buildings of brick and thatch surrounded by a shattered mud-wall.

 

It all just seemed to radiate poverty.

 

Dorian sighed. Slavery was supposed to give people reduced to _this_ a recourse. A voluntary, selfless sacrifice which would improve the whole family’s situation, which would allow them security. Sacrificing your freedom was supposed to be an act the Gods smiled on.

 

It was not something you stole from those who already had nothing but dust and stubbornness to show for themselves.

 

Dorian took a deep breath and climbed down from the wagon.

 

The knot of people, mostly humans bizarrely, around Fenris had already dispersed. Dorian wasn’t an expert but everything seemed to be running smoothly without supervision and so-

 

“This….place these raiders are hiding, do you know where it is?”

 

“Yes.” Fenris answered flatly.

 

Dorian waited but he didn’t elaborate.

 

“Things appear to be finished here.” Dorian stated after several minutes, although perhaps that was too subtle for Fenris because he didn’t respond.

 

“Is there a particular reason we should stay?” Dorian enquired and Fenris’ expression hardened.

 

“If you try to run for the border, mage, I will cut you down.”

 

“I told you I have absolutely _no_ desire to return home.” Dorian snapped.

 

“So you’ve suddenly decided you care about the enslaved masses?” Fenris asked sarcastically. “If you are trying to prove yourself to me, mage, you’re wasting your time.”

 

“Fasta vass!” Dorian snarled. “ _You_ are not the one I’m trying to prove something to!”

 

The elf’s expression flickered briefly and set again. He stared at Dorian and Dorian did his level best to glare back.

 

“If you run,” Fenris said softly. “I will kill you.”

 

“I thought we’d established that?”

 

“If you harm any of our people in any way, I will kill you.” Fenris continued. “If you try to remove the inhibitor, I will kill you.”

 

“And I suppose if I disobey you you’ll kill me?” Dorian enquired, trying not to sound as fed up with all of…this as he felt.

 

Fenris took a moment to actually consider it.

 

“No,” He said eventually. “But I may hit you.”

 

“Please try and restrain yourself. I’m not sure I can cope with these outbursts of unsolicited affection.”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself mage.”

 

-

 

Dorian began to have second thoughts almost as soon as they lost sight of the village.

 

He had no idea where they were going, or how long it would take to get there. It was dark, even assuming Fenris actually did know where they were going there was every chance they could get lost or separated.

 

And then Fenris would probably accuse him of trying to escape to Tevinter-

 

He had no idea what they were riding towards, how many of these raiders there were, what they might be capable of- While _Fenris_ had a ridiculously large sword Dorian was armed with something little better than a pocket knife. He couldn’t use magic in any truly useful sense.

 

Come to think of it he wasn’t entirely sure if the horses were borrowed or stolen.

 

Fenris stopped abruptly and Dorian pulled his own treacherous nag up alongside.

 

“Please tell me we’re not lost.” Dorian hissed.

 

“We are not lost.”

 

“Wonderful, why have we stopped?”

 

“Ghilan will have reached them first. They will have run. If we can catch them coming out we’ll cut off their escape.”

 

“And the villagers?”

 

“Will have been secured within, near the most obvious entrance.”

 

Dorian frowned. That…didn’t seem entirely sensible.

 

“Why?” He asked and Fenris turned to scowl at him.

 

“Because a group of Anders would remove the slaves first. It allows them-”

 

“Time to escape back across the border, yes I see.” Dorian sighed.

 

They waited for what seemed like an Age. Fenris was utterly still and professional of course while Dorian couldn’t help shifting uncomfortably in his saddle every few seconds.

 

Gods it was cold. And dark. And-

 

Without warning Fenris dug his heels into his horse and shot forward. Dorian cursed in a whisper and galloped after him.

 

Which probably wasn’t wise when he didn’t actually have a sword himself and couldn’t see where they were supposed to be-

 

Fenris’ markings flashed like lightning ahead. There was a scream-

 

And then Dorian’s horse ground to a sudden halt, pitching him off into the dirt.

 

He landed on his shoulder and swore explosively. The horse shrieked and reared and another voice, far too close, cursed in fluent Tevene.

 

Gods above he hadn’t literally ridden straight into the enemy had he?

 

The horse bolted and the raider lunged out of the dark.

 

Dorian scrambled backwards and the man tripped, cursing the Gods on the way down. Dorian just about made it to his knees before the slaver tackled him, sending them both rolling in the dust. And he was bigger, stronger, so when they came to stop he was on top. He’d managed to grab one of Dorian’s wrists in the scuffle, pining it.

 

There was a moment when he paused, leaning over Dorian close enough to see the whites of his eyes even in the gloom. A moment to catch his breath before he pulled back enough to hit Dorian with whatever he had in his other hand-

 

Dorian drew as much magic as his crippled connection to the Fade would allow and spat sparks at his eyes.

 

The man screamed, both hands going instinctively to his face, flinching away.

 

Dorian surged forwards, shoving Jarvia’s dagger towards what he hoped was the slaver’s neck.

 

There was a horrible gurgling sound.

 

The slaver plunged towards Dorian, arms flailing wildly, clawing at his eyes, his neck, his shoulders. He kicked and spasmed and Dorian threw all of his body weight behind the blade, wretched it back and forth until there was blood on his hands and in his hair and in his mouth-

 

Until the slaver finally stopped moving.

 

Dorian took a deep shuddering breath and sat back.

 

Toth’s mangy scales, it was in his _mouth_ and it tasted _foul_ -

 

He spat. Repeatedly. It didn’t do much good.

 

“Mage?”

 

“Coming.” Dorian called back.

 

He took a moment to lever the little dagger out of the slaver’s throat and stood. He found Fenris a few paces away, by what looked very much like a trapdoor.

 

Fenris had apparently managed not to lose his horse or get himself covered in gore.

 

Which really was enough to make anyone hate the bastard.

 

-

 

The torches were still burning inside. He’d expected something considerably dingier, damp, muddy tunnels and dirt walls but it was surprisingly comfortable. There was a proper floor at least, it was dry-

 

Fenris pushed ahead and Dorian tried to keep up.

 

“How did they build this?” Dorian asked in a whisper, it must have taken years and he couldn’t imagine Solas turning a blind eye to foreigners digging fortifications along the border.

 

“They didn’t.” Fenris hissed.

 

“Then who- _how-_ ”

 

“This is not the time for a history lesson, mage.”

 

“Yes I suppose you’re right.” Dorian allowed.

 

He paused for a moment, just long enough for another important point to occur to him.

 

“If the lyrium reacts badly to spells then should I-”

 

“It is _not_ the time, mage.” Fenris snapped.

 

“We’re in enemy territory with no idea where our allies are or when they might arrive and even less of an idea how many people we may have to fight.” Dorian pointed out. “Our survival might well depend on an effective barrier spell-”

 

“Should the need arise,” Fenris interrupted. “You have my permission to cast such a spell.”

 

“That…isn’t precisely an answer-” Dorian began.

 

“You did not specifically ask a question.” Fenris responded.

 

And Dorian had fully intended to ask more but there were two raiders in the room around the corner.

 

Fenris charged.

 

Dorian conjured as bright a light as he could manage just in front of a raider. It seemed to be enough to distract him-

 

Fenris batted the other raider’s weapon aside and drove the sword through his chest in one swift motion. He hadn’t pulled it free by the time the first slaver recovered, hefted his own sword-

 

Dorian raised the dagger, too late and-

 

The markings on Fenris’ skin flared to life, bright and sparkling and brilliant.

 

He plunged his hand straight at the slaver’s ribs, through them, into his torso. His hand twisted-

 

And the slaver fell dead.

 

“Gods above.” Dorian breathed.

 

If Fenris heard he didn’t answer.

 

It was a surprisingly ordinary room, now that Dorian had the time to consider it at all. A table, chairs, some cupboards, a leftover bowl of soup and a chipped vase with some wilting flowers-

 

“Do they live in these tunnels?” Dorian wondered aloud.

 

“The raiders do not.” Fenris answered flatly.

 

-

 

There were more rooms, sparse but furnished and clearly in use. Something about that nagged at Dorian.

 

Because it wasn’t necessary, a small stop over for glorified bandits didn’t need a kitchen, complete with mismatched crockery, just a fire. A convenient camp needed little more than bedrolls and blankets especially in a place as hot as the Anderfels. Beds implied a certain permanence-

 

They found the last raider in one of the corridors, dragging a girl behind him.

 

She was…young, too young, stumbling shoeless behind him. Dorian didn’t have time to take in much more than that, her thinning clothes and her wide, fearful eyes-

 

Dorian threw the dagger.

 

It hit the slaver just below the collar bone, sank through his light armour so that blade almost vanished entirely. The girl shrieked and the raider staggered a step, fell-

 

But the girl stepped with him, knelt with him-

 

She put her arms around his shoulders, shaking gently then more earnestly as if she meant to wake him.

 

“Master?” And it was Tevene coming out of her lips not Ander- “Master please protect me-”

 

She flinched when they stepped forward. She looked so terribly afraid-

 

And there was really no point in trying to convince her they weren’t a threat when Dorian was soaked in gore and Fenris had that ludicrous sword.

 

Softly, almost silently, she started to cry.

 

“I-” Dorian began, unsure whether he wanted to offer reassurance or apology.

 

Then Jarvia rounded the corner and the whole mess was taken out of his hands.

 

-

 

There wasn’t a celebration, exactly, when they got back to the village. Or well, perhaps it was. Perhaps a dirty bottle of gut-rotting-Gods-alone-knew-what a piece and a sharp smile was the Anderfel equivalent of high festivity.

 

It was a lot more subdued than he’d expected, especially watching the families of the kidnapped villagers. It made Dorian wonder if this was just another small horror the people of the Anderfels had come to see as normal.

 

Aclassi’s little pack of miscreants all seemed relatively content and the elven mage with the blank vallaslin (Ghilan, Fenris had said) certainly seemed very pleased with himself.

 

Dorian excused himself to clean away the gore. By the time he returned Leliana and Brosca had sought out some privacy and Leske was entirely inebriated. The easiest thing would have been to sit, probably between Jarvia and Aclassi, drink and smile.

 

Dorian sighed and trudged off to find Fenris.

 

-

 

“What do you want?”

 

He was sitting against the shattered town wall, bottle in hand and this would likely go as badly as the first time but-

 

Dorian sighed.

 

“You were right.”

 

Fenris raised an eyebrow.

 

“You were right.” Dorian repeated. “I don’t understand slavery at all.”

 

He wandered up and leaned against the wall. Fenris continued to stare at him as if he’d grown an extra limb.

 

“And I know,” He continued with a sigh. “That our homeland is a mess. Venhedis, even if you’d never been a slave you’d have reason enough to hate it.”

 

“Do you have a point mage?” Fenris enquired and he sounded…tired, as tired as Dorian felt.

 

“I just wish,” Dorian said finally. “That the Imperium was somewhere we could be proud of.”

 

“And who is ‘we’?”

 

“I don’t know. All of us I suppose.”

 

Fenris snorted. “Mages and soporati? The free and the slaves? Humans _and_ elves?”

 

“Why not?” Dorian asked. “Wouldn’t that- Wouldn’t it be _wonderful_ not to be ashamed of our country?”

 

“And what makes you think I see Tevinter as _my_ country?” Fenris retorted.

 

“Because it’s home.” Dorian said simply.

 

Fenris took a long drink and somehow didn’t choke or splutter around the foul stuff the way Dorian did.

 

“The Imperium does not regard elves, especially elven slaves, as it’s people.”

 

“No it doesn’t.” Dorian agreed. “But I- Isn’t it difficult to-”

 

He trailed off, took a small sip and swore.

 

“What you’re suggesting is a fantasy.” Fenris stated. “It is not possible.”

 

“Perhaps,” Dorian allowed. “But wouldn’t it be wonderful?”

 

Fenris didn’t answer and they stayed silent for quite some time as Fenris drank and Dorian gave up on persuading his body that the bottle actually contained liquor. Eventually he passed it to Fenris.

 

He took it with a sigh.

 

“I did not join the Dread Wolf when I first arrived here.” Fenris said finally. “But I encountered his wolves: hunting slavers as I was. They called me T’la.”

 

“Tuh-” Dorian tried.

 

“ _T’la_.” Fenris corrected. “Orthic, it means a ghost.”

 

He glanced up and caught Dorian’s eye.

 

“They’ve named you now.” Fenris informed him.

 

“Do _you_ have a point T’la?” Dorian asked.

 

Fenris stood, slowly, but far more surely than Dorian would have been capable of after downing so much damned-by-all-the-Gods-Ander-swill.

 

“We are neither of us _Tevinters_ any more.”

 

-

 

He had apparently been dubbed ‘Telahi’, something he deduced from the fact that Ghilan had refused to call him anything else.

 

They wouldn’t tell him what it meant. Because they were stubborn, aggravating _Anders_.

 

But they took the thrice-cursed anklet off him before they left the village. Aclassi and Ghilan with Fenris hovering in the background and probably hoping that Dorian would set someone on fire giving a handy excuse to run him through. It meant he had slightly more to do when they eventually made their way back towards Weisshaupt, between bandits and demons, the odd possessed animal and the endless ice the return journey was rather less tedious.

 

He spent the quiet moments trying to figure out what, exactly, he was going to say to Solas when he got back. The Dread Wolf had certainly earned a piece of his mind.

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Tevene  
> Fasta Vass- An untranslated swearword  
> Venhedis- Another untranslated swearword  
> Soporati- The free, non-mages of Tevinter
> 
> Does anyone else ever wish Dragon Age translated more swear words?
> 
> Relevant Elvhen  
> Ghilan- Guide  
> Vallaslin- Literally blood writing, in this case technically misidentified. I couldn't however fit the explanation for this into this particular fic. I might use it if I do another Dragon Age story in this AU. If anyone's curious I have an overly long explanation for the 'blank vallaslin'  
> Tel- Negation, ie Tel’x ‘not x’
> 
> From Sanskrit  
> Ahi- Snake, serpent or dragon. (Sanskrit)  
> Telahi- Literally ‘not a dragon’
> 
> From Amharic  
> T’la- Ghost (primarily shade, shadow also apparently part of the word for inedible mushrooms, because languages are weird)
> 
> Amharic is an Ethiopian language, associated with the race that used to be the elite (I don't know the current situation well enough to state if they still are). A really beautiful writing system and some lovely illuminated manuscripts. It's incredibly difficult to double check translations of African languages online, even more widely spoken ones such as Yoruba, and standard dictionaries are (in my experience) often shockingly inaccurate and haven't been updated since the 1800s. My Amharic likely contains more mistakes than my Sanskrit.
> 
> Oh and because I'm a horrible tease the next chapter title is 'In which Solas is shirtless and Dorian is distracted'


	15. In which Solas is shirtless and Dorian is distracted

It was already dark when they finally returned to Weisshaupt and _Gods_ Dorian knew his standards were slipping because he’d started thinking of the place as ‘civilisation’. It took far far too long for them to deal with the wagons, unhitch the brontos and pass them off to whoever was now nominally responsible for them. Leaving Dorian rather lacking the energy for a blazing row with Fen’Harel.

 

He’d considered going to find the bastard anyway but then Jarvia had clapped him on the back and there was the Anderfels equivalent of real food and something that was almost like beer. The past few weeks had all caught up again.

 

He tried to head up towards Adaar’s room but Jarvia had steered him away towards hers-

 

(“I’m flattered madam but I-”

 

“Save it Vint, you’re too young and too skinny for me anyway.”)

 

He collapsed on the nearest bed as soon as they got in and slept.

 

-

 

By the time he woke it was already bright and insufferably hot. He’d need to see about getting some lighter robes as well as a staff-

 

He trudged up the unnecessary number of stairs to Solas’ quarters, trying not to think about the possible ramifications of shouting at _Fen’Harel_ in Weisshaupt.

 

He knocked. There was no answer.

 

After a while Dorian plucked up the courage to open the door.

 

Solas wasn’t there.

 

Of course.

 

Which was actually helpful in a roundabout way. By the time Dorian had tramped back down the stairs he’d managed to stoke minor irritation up into anger.

 

By the time he’d traipsed into the stables he was fuming.

 

How _dare_ that- that _savage_ decide he knew what was best for Dorian Pavus! The _hypocrisy_ of it after all that talk about _choice_ -

 

He didn’t stop to think too deeply about the wisdom of asking someone the Dread Wolf considered a friend for help locating the slippery little bastard. But Banal’ras seemed to find it all amusing, at least that’s how Dorian chose to interpret the tiny twitch at the corner of her lip.

 

She told him where Solas was and Dorian set off through the lower levels of Weisshaupt’s winding alleyways and halls. He got lost several times before finally approaching what was probably the right place. An out of the way little spit of dirt not too far from the kitchens, open but shaded.

 

Dorian steeled himself.

 

The inconsiderate, arrogant, lying, self-righteous _Ander_ thoroughly deserved to-

 

Dorian rounded the corner and stopped dead.

 

“Urthemiel’s flames,” He breathed in a whisper and he-

 

That is to say there was-

 

He probably needed to-

 

Dorian just about managed to close his mouth.

 

Because like an idiot he’d blundered in when Solas was stripped to the waist and-

 

By _all the Gods_ he was beautiful.

 

For what felt like a very long time all Dorian could do was stare. The man was solid muscle under those plain tunics and-

 

He didn’t seem to have a single scar just smooth pale _perfect_ skin with the smallest scattering of dark hair, nothing to mar the faultless lines of his chest and torso. No man looked like that outside of dreams or hopelessly idealised works of art. It shouldn’t have been possible-

 

Dorian found he couldn’t look away.

 

And suddenly he found himself wanting to touch that soft flawless skin, run his hands along those sides, kiss his way along those shoulders, find out what that wonderful, perfect skin tasted like and-

 

“Dorian!” Solas said brightly and it was as startling as a short, blast of lightning in the back.

 

Dorian jumped and _Gods_ he couldn’t tell could he? Because he might just have been an Elvhen god but a god was a god and-

 

Solas was smiling. He looked relatively happy to see Dorian. He was not going to do anything….drastic. He probably hadn’t noticed. Had he?

 

Solas was still talking and Dorian was trying rather desperately to pay attention when his treacherous focus kept sliding between the man’s chest and what he might conceivably _do_ to Dorian to punish him for staring.

 

Something about Aclassi-

 

And something else about Dorian assisting-

 

Because of course Solas was actually in the process of doing something constructive and now that Dorian had given the surroundings a moment’s attention he couldn’t help but notice the gigantic pestle and mortar propped against the wall and incredible pile of elfroot and it was probably a good thing he hadn’t tried to talk because the man was _still_ wilfully shirtless and how by all the Gods was Dorian supposed to pay attention to anything else?

 

Solas turned away from Dorian (and _Gods help him_ the man’s back was every inch as gorgeous-) and started piling elfroot leaves into the mortar.

 

Tinctures and poultices. They were making tinctures and poultices. Yes that made sense. Dorian could do that.

 

“Would you like me to-” He began and was inordinately proud of how steady his voice sounded.

 

“Prepare the rest of the plants. If you don’t mind.” Solas replied.

 

He hadn’t noticed. He honestly hadn’t noticed. That was probably good-

 

Dorian sat and started ripping the leaves from the stems, putting them to one side and any berries to another and-

 

He was supposed to be angry with Solas.

 

He tried reminding himself that the Dread Wolf utterly deserved it but the fire had gone out of him. Dorian sighed. He was wondering how to broach the subject and made the mistake of glancing back up at Solas.

 

_Gods-_

 

“Why are you-”

 

No he certainly _was not_ going to ask that. At all. It was completely irrelevant and a ridiculous thing to ask and for all Dorian knew it was perfectly normal for Ander men to walk around half-dressed and he really needed to _stop thinking about it now_.

 

“I’m sorry?” Solas enquired.

 

Oh no-

 

Dorian forced himself to look back down at the elfroot.

 

“What?”

 

“You were going to ask me something.”

 

“Oh it doesn’t matter.” Dorian insisted.

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“Quite sure.” Dorian said firmly.

 

Thankfully Solas didn’t press him.

 

For a while Dorian turned back to the plants trying to gather his thoughts into something relatively rational.

 

He looked up again, briefly, in time to see Solas heft the pestle (a stave half the height of a human) away from the wall. He turned back to the elfroot again because he really did not need to be caught drooling like a cretin whatever the provocation.

 

Dorian closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

 

He tried to focus on the elfroot but it wasn’t exactly stimulating. If he tried to whip himself up into a rage again he’d only end up sounding like a fool.

 

He thought about the brontos, with their awful smell and terrible thirst. It didn’t really work so he started to think about sermons: the appalling cacophony of Zazikel’s services and the dull drag of Dumat’s. He’d actually fallen asleep in one as a boy and his mother had given him such a beating-

 

That was better. No inappropriate thoughts at all.

 

“I did want to talk to you.” Dorian began, without looking up.

 

“Oh?” Solas replied, the dull thud of pestle against plant paused momentarily.

 

“I’m actually rather angry at you.” Dorian stated blandly.

 

The thudding stopped.

 

“Why?”

 

“ _Why?”_ Dorian echoed. “Because- Because-”

 

He glared up and found Solas looking back at him with a slightly puzzled smirk that was just _infuriating._ Flecks of bright green juice from the elfroot had splattered over his hands, his strong lean arms and a few drops had landed on his chest right above his _no-_

 

Dorian let out a frustrated hiss and turned back to the elfroot leaves.

 

“You lied to me. You manipulated me! You _knew_ I would never voluntarily work with that- with _Fenris_ \- so you didn’t tell me about him. And I _know_ you had your reasons and I _chose_ to believe that you probably had good intentions and I _realise_ that it benefited me in the end but that _does not_ excuse your conduct in the slightest.”

 

He paused, took a deep breath and waited for Solas to respond.

 

“I think you may have defined leadership.” Solas observed thoughtfully.

 

For a moment Dorian had absolutely no idea what to say.

 

Thankfully it did not last.

 

“ _Fasta vass!_ You- You! URGH!”

 

He tore off a handful of leaves with far more force than was necessary. At least it kept him focused on the important points-

 

“Do you _truly_ not understand why I _might possibly_ have some reason to be angry?”

 

“Left to your own devices you wouldn’t have made any meaningful connections and you still would not have access to your magic.”

 

“That is not _the point_.” Dorian snapped. “You can’t make decisions for other people-”

 

“And again we return to the definition of leadership-”

 

“You _could_ have explained what joining Aclassi would mean. And I _might_ have agreed with you that it was worth the risk-”

 

“And if you hadn’t you might well be dead by now.”

 

“I-” Dorian trailed off.

 

If the sound was anything to judge by Solas was rather determinedly reducing plants to pulp. When Dorian eventually looked up Solas seemed to be focused entirely on the contents of the mortar.

 

“Why does that matter to you?”

 

“Every life has worth.”

 

“Yes,” Dorian agreed carefully. “But I…suspect this goes somewhat beyond a normal level of interest in one man’s affairs.”

 

Solas sighed and the pounding stopped. He frowned at Dorian for a moment then turned away.

 

“I am the reason you’re trapped here.” He said simply.

 

“Given the alternative-” Dorian began and Solas cut him off with a gesture.

 

“That’s not an excuse. I brought you here. I am responsible for your situation.” He sighed again. “The least I can do is make it likely you’ll survive.”

 

Dorian turned back to the elfroot.

 

They worked in silence for a while.

 

“I’m not a child.” Dorian said finally. “And I’m not a fool. Next time I would appreciate it if you explained the situation rather than making the decision for me. Please.”

 

“Ma nuvenin.” The Dread Wolf replied.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“If you insist.”

 

-

 

He ended up staying through the morning preparing the remainder of the elfroot and spreading the stalks and berries evenly over the clay to dry. They moved on to safer topics of conversation debating the relationship between crude and magical healing which moved on to a discussion of the flora in the Anderfels and then turned smoothly into-

 

“You mean to say you _ferment_ demonweed?” Dorian exclaimed as Solas put the pestle aside.

 

“Not personally.” The Dread Wolf replied, wiping the elfroot sap from his arms and _finally_ putting on a civilised amount of clothing.

 

“We are talking about the same plant?” Dorian asked as they scooped the pulp out into buckets. “Properly known as ‘felandaris’? Horrible, black, covered in spines?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good _Gods_ ,” Dorian declared. “Tell me you haven’t tried it.”

 

Solas winced and Dorian couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

 

“Gods above! Is it as awful as it sounds?”

 

“Considerably worse.” Solas told him. “Never drink anything grey.”

 

They took a few buckets each and he followed Solas down through the cellars under the kitchens through corridors that were a bizarre mixture of Elvhen and Dwarven in style. They came out in a room that appeared to be part apothecary, part smithy.

 

And Dorian had been perfectly prepared to set the bucket down, make his excuses and leave but Solas had apparently stashed a perfectly serviceable lunch in there and had offered to share it. And they hadn’t quite settled the question of whether Tevene artichoke liqueur was worse than Elvhen pine whiskey-

 

Which, somehow, led to him offering his assistance. They alternated between conjuring the fire and the ice necessary to power some surprisingly sophisticated apparatus for what must have been hours-

 

He didn’t really notice that they’d worked their way through the entire batch of elfroot, separating the useful oils, then straining the remains to keep the aqueous infusion and plant matter as well.

 

He didn’t really notice that they’d bottled and labelled most of the various components either.

 

He didn’t even notice the dwarf (was it Danga? Dagna?) come in, at least not until sometime later when she decided to give her own opinion on whether enchanting potion bottles was worthwhile.

 

The day had just slipped by. It was dark and all those poor innocent herbs had been reduced to their most useful component parts.

 

He’d almost forgotten how interesting discussions with Solas could be. They’d spent all day in that disordered library sometimes and-

 

There was something almost uncomfortably familiar about going up through the kitchens with him, sitting together in the almost empty hall and talking about how rips in the Veil affected plants.

 

It shouldn’t have been so easy to talk to him. And it shouldn’t have been nearly so hard to stop thinking about how he looked under those ridiculously shabby tunics. It was-

 

“Dorian?” Solas was smiling at him.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“It’s late.” The Dread Wolf said, getting to his feet. “And I’m afraid I have business in the Fade.”

 

“Oh of course,” Dorian replied as if it wasn’t strange at all. “I- Good night Solas.”

 

“Good night Dorian.”

 

He stared determinedly at his plate while he counted to a hundred. Then, just to be sure, he did it again before looking up.

 

Solas was gone. It was almost a relief. Still he hadn’t stared; he hadn’t said anything stupid or untoward. No one had noticed anything, which meant no one could be offended or leap in to protect their leader’s honour-

 

And anyway there were probably _thousands_ of men in Weisshaupt. He was bound to see someone else in a few days. Someone more amenable and less…well someone who wasn’t part of anyone’s blasted pantheon.

 

It was just a…natural reaction to a tolerable physique after all the recent stress he’d been under. Yes. That was it. Perfectly natural. Someone else, someone more within his sphere, would catch his eye in no time.

 

Dorian poked at the remains of his supper.

 

That _smile_ -

 

Dorian groaned.

 

Urthemiel’s flames it was....a phase. It had to be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Tevene  
> Fasta Vass- An untranslated swearword
> 
> Relevant Elvhen  
> Ma nuvenin- As you say
> 
> Notes: Extraction of natural products
> 
> While I haven’t described it in great detail what Solas and Dorian do in this chapter is proper old-school chemistry and was one of the foundations of medicial treatment for hundreds of years. Basically they’re doing a simple separatation on some of the chemical components the plants produce. Volatile oils can be driven off by heating and then distilled. Water soluble components are simulatenously driven into the water by the heating procedure. Procedures for chemistry and medicine have moved on but these sorts of procedures are still used in food, alcohol and perfume manufacture. Because plants are really really complicated and it’s often easier to get flavours and smells ‘right’ by extracting them from the real thing.
> 
> Oh and people do actually *make* alcohol out of both artichokes and pine trees. Because humanity is strange. And Solas is right- you shouldn't drink anything grey.


	16. In which Jarvia is helpful and the Gods hate Dorian

The sensible thing to do would have been to avoid Solas. Unfortunately that sounded a lot easier than it actually proved to be.

 

Part of the problem was that Dorian still hadn’t mastered Ander which limited his social circle somewhat. Of course the rather larger part of it was that even from the little he could understand it was easy to see that most people did not want to associate with a ‘Magister’.

 

Adaar was busy with his sister.

 

Jarvia appeared to spend the majority of her time in Weisshaupt with people who were absolutely not Carta spies and decidedly not plotting regicide or assorted assassinations.

 

He’d tried spending time with Leliana and Brosca but it was impossible not to see that they’d rather be alone.

 

Leske was a half-wit, he hadn’t been able to find Aclassi-

 

And he wasn’t quite desperate enough to resort to Fenris for company.

 

He’d tried hiding in Jarvia’s room. Idleness had nearly driven him insane.

 

All of which meant that sooner or later he found himself seeking out the Dread Wolf.

 

Because Solas was _interesting_. Conversationally. They…talked. About history and politics and magic, the Anderfels might have been completely insane but it was certainly fascinating hearing how it became quite so irrational-

 

The projects he seemed to be working on with the excitable red-headed dwarf (Dorian was _almost_ certain she was Dagna-) were engaging. And he seemed to appreciate Dorian’s input-

 

And he was an exceptional mage. There was a…subtlety to his spells, an intricacy in the way he manipulated the Fade that Dorian had never seen before. It could have been Elvhen but he liked to think it was uniquely Solas-

 

And he didn’t smile nearly often enough. Which turned it into something of a challenge and made every fleeting smile feel like a victory and he had a _beautiful_ smile and-

 

 _Gods_ -

 

It was a good thing Aclassi had found a group of caravans heading to Hossberg in need of a guard. If he stayed in Weisshaupt he was going to end up doing something he’d regret.

 

-

 

They headed north east, parallel to the original mountain range. So much of it had been levelled off when they’d built the fortress that Weisshaupt became the highest point, dominating the sky to the south.

 

“Vint you keep staring back there like it’s going to run off.” Jarvia observed.

 

“I do?” Dorian sighed. “My apologies.”

 

“And I’ve said so twice today and about five times yesterday.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Dorian murmured and Jarvia scowled at him.

 

“You’re gonna make me ask aren’t you?” She guessed, putting her axe aside so she could cross her arms.

 

“Whatever do you mean?” Dorian inquired.

 

Jarvia’s glower deepened.

 

“Urgh, _fine._ ” She relented with a huff. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I- _nothing_ ,” Dorian insisted. “I’m completely-”

 

“Telahi,” Jarvia began in a warning tone. “If you say ‘fine’ then so help me I _will_ find the nearest rift and pin you out for the demons under it.”

 

“It’s nothing important. I’m just-”

 

“Mopey? Despondent? Staring mournfully into the distance?” Jarvia suggested.

 

She stared up at him with an expression that was far too calculating and Dorian found himself wishing for another group of bandits.

 

“What’re you worried about? The ‘Magister’ thing? Revenge attacks? You’ve caught something nasty?”

 

Dorian sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. Jarvia kept guessing.

 

“Going into Andrastian territory? Getting ambushed again? Love life?”

 

“What? No!” Dorian protested a little too quickly.

 

Jarvia smiled unkindly.

 

“Right. Love life.” She shuffled closer and prodded him hard in the ribs. “What’d you do?”

 

“Nothing! I’m not- we’re not-”

 

“So you’ve met someone and instead of talking to her about it like a everyone else you’ve decided to beat yourself up about it and make yourself miserable pining for her?” Jarvia guessed.

 

Then she hit him, lightly, just below the shoulder.

 

“She married?” Jarvia asked and Dorian sighed.

 

Apparently this was not a bizarre nightmare but was actually happening. And it wasn’t as though he hadn’t lied about his inclinations before when asked, although usually the inquiries were prompted by rather more than longing looks. It would just be _typical_ if after everything Dorian had been through he got run out of Weisshaupt for inappropriate behaviour with the Dread Wolf _before_ he’d even done anything remotely inappropriate.

 

“No.” Dorian said tiredly. “Nothing like that.”

 

“So what? You’re too much of a mouse to talk to her?”

 

“I believe we may have the opposite problem.” Dorian stated, half hoping she’d drop this entire conversation but-

 

Jarvia waited, eyebrow arched. And he hadn’t risked talking to anyone else about it and-

 

Dorian sighed again.

 

“We talk. Quite often actually. We’ve had detailed conversations on just about everything _else_. I suspect that…she sees me as a friend and I wouldn’t want to break our trust or spoil our friendship by demanding more.”

 

Jarvia shrugged. “You’re not gonna know how she feels ‘less you ask, Vint.”

 

“I know _that_.” Dorian responded testily. “But it’s somewhat more complicated-”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because- she’s an Ander, respected, established. _She_ is at the top level of their ridiculous rat’s nest of a social order and _I_ am most decidedly not.”

 

“So if you break her heart half the fort lines up to break your legs.” Jarvia shrugged again. “I can have the Carta fight some of em off if it comes to that.”

 

“Thank you I’m sure.”

 

Jarvia grinned and swatted him again. “Don’t mention it. What’s she like?”

 

The Gods hated him, Dorian decided, there could be no other reason for finding himself trapped in this conversation.

 

“She’s…intelligent?” Dorian said, trying not to sound quite so unsure.

 

Jarvia poked him again. “And?”

 

“Somewhat older. A mage-”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jarvia interrupted. “But what’s she _like_?”

 

Oh no-

 

“I’m…not entirely sure what you-” Dorian began.

 

“Calm down, Vint I don’t mean _that_. What’s she look like?”

 

Gods help him he was going to have to describe a woman’s body and sound enthusiastic about it! What in Dumat’s name had he ever done to deserve this?

 

“Errrr-” Zazikel’s teeth he couldn’t think of anything, why couldn’t he think of anything?!

 

“Quite…handsome?”

 

Jarvia smirked. “You’re really selling this Telahi, she even real?”

 

“What? Yes of course! You just-” Dorian sighed. “I’m not very good at this.”

 

“Never have guessed.” Jarvia drawled.

 

He could do this, he could, he was inventive-

 

“She’s…lean. Relatively tall, pale for an Ander. A…she has a nice smile-”

 

“Uh huh?” She was smirking at him again, in a knowing way that was far from comforting. “What’s his name?”

 

 _Oh no_ -

 

“I-” He started reflexively but the denial died in his throat.

 

“Waitaminute, a skinny older mage, established in the fort? He’s one of the old wolves isn’t he?”

 

 _Oh Gods no_ -

 

“What?!”

 

“You know! Part of Fen’Harel’s original army.” Jarvia explained and something in his expression must have slipped because- “No? He is!”

 

She barked out a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. Dorian wished a rift would open up above them. He wanted to lie, rather desperately, to just give Jarvia a name so she could chuckle perhaps give him some dubious advice and the conversation could _end_. She couldn’t know about Solas: even if these people were tolerant of inverts there was no way they would condone a Tevinter _human_ , a ‘Magister’ with-

 

He needed to give her a name. But he’d only met four elves in the Anderfels and the only one he knew for certain had been part of the Dread Wolf’s original army had been leading it.

 

“So!” Jarvia said when she’d finally stopped laughing. “Out with it, who is he?”

 

Dorian buried his face in his hands. “I’d really rather not talk-”

 

“I know.” Jarvia replied brightly, prodding him again. “Spill.”

 

Dorian groaned. Perhaps if he didn’t say anything she’d start guessing and he could just pick a name and if he was vague enough then-

 

Jarvia had gone worryingly silent. Dorian glanced down in time to see her grin.

 

The Gods truly hated him.

 

“Jarvia,” He began warningly trying and failing to cut off whatever theory she’d dreamed up.

 

“Shit it’s _him_ isn’t it?”

 

“Jarvia _please-_ ”

 

“It’s the _Dread Wolf_. You’re pining after the sodding _Dread Wolf_!”

 

She seemed to think the very idea was hilarious.

 

“Please don’t tell anyone!” Dorian blurted out which stopped her laughing at least.

 

“Why?” She asked.

 

“They’ll- I don’t-” Dorian took a deep breath and tried again. “I imagine that Weisshaupt is full of people who would be perfectly happy to disembowel me for so much as _thinking_ about Fen’Harel and I really do not wish-”

 

“The Dread Wolf can take care of himself.” Jarvia interrupted in a tone that seemed to be aiming for reassuring. “Believe me if the rumours are anything to go by you wouldn’t be the weirdest by a long way-”

 

“That’s not-” Dorian began and trailed off.

 

He had no idea how to explain it. He’d never had to. Everyone _knew_ you didn’t pursue relations of that nature with the same sex and certainly not with elves. You weren’t supposed to desire them. And if you did then they could only be used as a momentary distraction not-

 

He had no idea how to explain it to someone who didn’t _know_. He couldn’t collect a lifetime of fears, punishments and yearnings in a moment.

 

So Jarvia patted him on the back, probably believing she already understood.

 

“Don’t worry about it Vint. I’ll help you out.”

 

“I would really rather you didn’t.” Dorian insisted.

 

“Cos you’re so happy staring off into the distance and pining.” Jarvia observed.

 

Dorian sighed. “I can’t stop you interfering can I?”

 

“No.” She replied, patting him rather condescendingly on the shoulder.

 

The Gods absolutely hated him-

 

-

 

By the time they stopped in the evening and set up camp everyone knew.

 

Everyone _knew_ -

 

And while they weren’t acting like anyone from the Imperium would have-

 

“Leske!” Leliana scolded. “Stop laughing, it’s not funny!”

 

“It is!” Leske insisted.

 

Dorian wondered if the ground would swallow him if he stared at it hard enough. He could probably crack the earth open under himself if he put his mind to it… Of course given how his luck had gone so far today Aclassi would probably send Fenris to dig him out.

 

“Yes it’s all _utterly_ hilarious,” Dorian snapped in a biting tone he hadn’t quite dared to use around most of them before. “I’m sure none of you have ever been attracted to someone uninterested and out of your reach. Now can we _please_ talk about something else?”

 

“Why d’you think he ain’t interested?” Brosca asked, mildly curious and Dorian sighed.

 

How had he got himself into this ridiculous situation?

 

“Because I’m a man? Because I’m human? Because I am, as you all unfailingly remind me, a ‘ _vint_ ’? How long a list would you like?”

 

“He’s taken men as lovers before.” Leliana mused. “At least according to the stories-”

 

“And humans.” Aclassi added with smirk.

 

“Oh yes.” Leliana nodded in agreement. “The tales about Warden Theron- but he was an elf I believe. But there’s the Ballad of Ser Samuel, he was a Seeker of Truth, and several of the stories about Tafari and the Wolf are quite…suggestive-”

 

Gods he hadn’t truly let himself think of it as a possibility before. But if Solas liked men; some of them at least, had apparently been with men before. It made Dorian feel something treacherously close to hopeful.

 

“That doesn’t mean anything-” Dorian murmured. “And I am sure I’m going to regret asking but _why_ do you have such extensive knowledge about the Dread Wolf’s relationships?”

 

“I enjoy stories.” Leliana replied almost primly. “Romance-”

 

“Especially the spicy ones!” Leske interjected and Brosca told him to shut up.

 

Dorian may or may not have muttered something about suddenly desiring Dumat’s blessing that made Aclassi laugh.

 

“Yes, yes.” Dorian said testily. “It’s all extremely funny. As we’ve now established, at length, I am ridiculous. Now can you _please_ stop?”

 

“Are you going to talk to-” Leliana began and Dorian interrupted before she’d finished her sentence because _no_ he was most certainly not.

 

“See what I mean?” Jarvia asked the campsite at large. “The boy needs help.”

 

Dorian groaned and protested but they talked around him anyway. And they seemed to be deciding that they should ‘help’ Dorian pursue Solas.

 

Because the Gods hated him.

 

-

 

“So, what’re you gonna say to him?”

 

“Go away, Leske.”

 

-

 

“-but he’s not even good looking.” Brosca mused. “I mean he’s _bald_ and skinny and his ears look like, I mean I know elves have _ears_ but he’s got-”

 

“Please stop.”

 

-

 

“You’re an Altus, so there’s things you might not know.” Aclassi told him seriously. “So…when two men love each other very much-”

 

“Vishante kaffas!”

 

“If you don’t listen,” Aclassi warned. “You’ll never learn-”

 

-

 

“Thank you,” Dorian said with a long suffering sigh. “But I really do _not_ need to hear the gory details of every rumour, scandal and affair Fen’Harel’s been involved in.”

 

“Oh well in that case,” Leliana rose to leave and-

 

“No! Wait!”

 

-

 

“I feel like I should thank you.”

 

“That is unnecessary, mage.”

 

“You’re the only person who hasn’t incessantly bothered me with so-called advice.”

 

“I doubt it would make a difference. I’m confident the Dread Wolf has better taste.”

 

-

 

He cracked when they reached Hossberg and if Dorian was honest he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d made it that long. Between his band’s ceaseless badgering and Leliana’s stories he’d been bound to sooner or later.

 

Gods help him but he wanted the Dread Wolf. And he was Tevene, he couldn’t be a coward about it indefinitely. Especially not when he knew that Solas’ tastes didn’t immediately discount…that he had a chance at least in theory. He wasn’t Leliana’s dashing Ser Samuel or her cunning Tafari but-

 

Perhaps-

 

“Alright,” Dorian said with a sigh. “I’ll talk to him.”

 

Leske cheered. Jarvia clapped him on the back.

 

Solas seemed to like him, they were friends… He might not say no-

 

And Dorian had at least a few weeks to think of something to say.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Elvhen  
> Tel- Negation ie tel-x not-x  
> Ahi- Dragon, serpant, from Sanskrit  
> Telahi- Not a dragon. Dorian's new nickname
> 
> Relevant Tevene  
> Vishante kaffas- I think Dorian translated this as 'you shit on my tongue'


	17. In which there are miscommunications

“Urgh!” Dorian collapsed onto the bench beside Jarvia and groped for the nearest drink.

 

Aclassi took pity on him and slid him a glass of something that could charitably be called ‘wine’.

 

“Still not asked him?” Jarvia guessed.

 

Dorian groaned again. “I’ve _tried_.”

 

And he had tried. And each and every time something came up and before he knew it they were talking about philosophy or helping Dagna with those experimental wards or one of a hundred other things that was getting them nowhere.

 

The man was either incredibly oblivious or absolutely immune to flirtation.

 

“May be you should try harder.” Aclassi said and Dorian manfully resisted the urge to set everything on fire.

 

“Well what do you suggest? The _last_ time I asked him if we could get to know each other he took it as an invitation to discuss political corruption, slavery and the problems with the Magisterium.” Dorian sighed. “Short of asking him if he’d like to fuck I’m- I don’t know what to do.”

 

Jarvia shrugged. “Ask him if he wants to fuck.”

 

He turned, bodily, towards Aclassi.

 

“Tell me, if I drink this forsaken-by-all-the-Gods _swill_ will I forget what she just said?”

 

There were a few blessed advantages to Anders wine.

 

-

 

Of course one of the disadvantages of Anders wine was that it left one with the nebulous idea that going further afield for advice was actually a good plan.

 

“I’m sorry.” Dorian told Adaar, well his door, the wretched ox wouldn’t open the damned thing after…whatever Dorian had said last night.

 

Adaar replied with something that sounded anatomically improbable but at least his Tevene was improving.

 

“Adaar, I am _truly_ sorry.” Dorian repeated, which was perfectly accurate, his head was _killing_ him. “Can you please open the door?”

 

He did, but only wide enough that Dorian could see his eye staring down. Bless him it looked as though the boy was trying to glare-

 

Dorian sighed. “Alright out with it.”

 

“Out with-?”

 

“Whatever problem you have with me potentially….courting-”

 

“He’s my _hahren_.” Adaar interrupted and some of Dorian’s confusion must have showed because he expanded. “My _teacher_. Only it’s more than that, like family. Like he’s my Tama-”

 

“And…?” Dorian prompted as Adaar trailed off.

 

“You talked about his ass!”

 

-

 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Dagna announced as soon as Dorian snuck into her workshop. “Well part of what you said. The uh less graphic parts. I’ve been trying not to think about the other bits especially when _he_ came in earlier because I’ve still got to look him in the eye and-”

 

“I am sincerely sorry.”

 

“What I mean is,” Dagna began again with a massive gulp of air. “Why don’t you get him a present?”

 

It was the first genuinely helpful idea anyone had managed to dream up. Unfortunately-

 

“I lack the funds.” Dorian stated.

 

“You could make something. I could help if you like.” Dagna offered.

 

It was a perfectly reasonable proposition. If only he could think of something Solas would actually _like_ -

 

He didn’t seem to have any sentimental attachments to…things. His clothes made him look like an Andrastian hermit who’d crawled out of the Merdaine. He didn’t wear jewellery and while Dorian was _reasonably_ certain that he washed he appeared to use the simplest soaps imaginable. He enjoyed books, but he almost certainly had a better library than House Pavus and House Alexius combined, excluding the Tethras novels for the sake of the argument-

 

And there was the minor matter that Dorian had no idea how to make…well anything really.

 

“What would you suggest?” Dorian asked.

 

“I- ummm,” Dagna seemed to think about it for a moment before shrugging. “He paints?”

 

“Unfortunately I don’t.”

 

“Well we could try mixing some pigments.” Dagna said. “I’ve got some recipes here somewhere and it can’t be that difficult right?”

 

It was.

 

-

 

He didn’t try to track down Banal’ras although he was _fairly_ certain he’d spoken to her whilst under the influence. Dorian was rather of the opinion that surviving with all his limbs intact the first time was miraculous so he’d been _trying_ to avoid her.

 

Which might have been rather more successful if Dorian had been physically capable of blending in…well anywhere really.

 

She stepped out in front of him suddenly and even though she wasn’t _that_ much taller than him she still managed to loom. She crossed her arms. Dorian did not flee.

 

“It occurs to me,” He said perhaps a little quickly. “That I probably owe you an apology. For last night. I was extremely drunk. Not that that’s an excuse. If I could perhaps-”

 

“Talk to him.” She stated flatly.

 

It made Dorian lose his thread.

 

“I- I’ve tried that.”

 

“Be blunter.”

 

-

 

Dorian wondered just how many times he’d lingered, apprehensive, at Solas’ door. Was this the fifth time? He could remember the first vividly-

 

This shouldn’t have seemed anywhere near as important, not compared to being shipped back to Tevinter and yet-

 

It had been quite some time since he’d been this worried about rejection. Still, he raised his hand, knocked, almost hoped that Solas was elsewhere.

 

But he wasn’t. So Dorian took a deep breath and stepped inside, trying not to feel nervous, trying not to feel hopeful.

 

Solas turned and smiled as Dorian came in and _Gods_ but it was hard not to hope.

 

“Dorian, how can I help you?”

 

He hadn’t the least idea how to begin. He’d thought about it, ran a thousand versions of the conversation through his mind and every bright idea he’d had seemed to vanish confronted with that small, almost shy, smile.

 

“I wondered if we could talk?” Dorian asked.

 

“About what in particular?”

 

Gods did he really not know? Perhaps he did and ignoring it all was his way of gently discouraging Dorian. Perhaps it was his way of saying all he desired was friendship. Were they friends? It was difficult to be sure of anything around Solas, with his mild indecipherable expressions and his carefully misleading words.

 

“I- You’ve done so much for me and…I am grateful,” Dorian began haltingly. “But I- Are we friends? Because I very much enjoy the time we spend together, I value your opinion and you can be so very difficult to read-”

 

He glanced across at Solas and the Dread Wolf hadn’t moved. Perhaps he was sitting a little straighter and his expression was somewhat less open and welcoming but that might have been confusion because Dorian hadn’t exactly said-

 

“I consider us friends, Telahi.” Solas offered. “And yes I value that.”

 

Dorian smiled, nodded this would be so much easier if the room had another chair, something to put himself at Solas’ level but the only other thing he could really sit on was the bed and that wouldn’t do.

 

He stepped forward, paused and wondered how to proceed. Solas had been particularly obtuse when Dorian had tried to explain his…inclinations but then the elves apparently had a word for it so perhaps he’d just wanted to be sure. And according to Leliana’s stories he had more than a passing awareness of-

 

“Are…any of the stories about you true?” Dorian asked and Solas sighed, glanced away.

 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

 

Because there were hundreds of stories about the Dread Wolf. Of course. And Solas was probably thinking of-

 

“I’m not referring to Imperium propaganda.” Dorian said quickly. “I’m perfectly aware that you’re not the man they’d paint you as, I meant-”

 

Dorian trailed off unsure. Solas tilted his head and regarded Dorian with a cool, composed expression that didn’t help him find the right words at all.

 

“Yes?” Solas prompted after a moment and Dorian sighed.

 

“Some of the Ander stories that I heard were rather- That is I had assumed-”

 

Gods he was straying from the point. Banal’ras had told him to be blunt.

 

“You’ve had…relations with humans?”

 

“Yes.” Solas admitted calmly. “Is that a problem?”

 

“No!” Dorian protested. “I just- of course in the Imperium- but that’s hardly the point-”

 

“What is?”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“The point of this discussion Dorian.” The Dread Wolf stated and it was difficult to tell but Dorian _thought_ he was perhaps getting somewhat exasperated. “Did you come here to ask me about long-dead lovers?”

 

Dorian swallowed. “No.”

 

He took a deep breath, stepped closer. He wanted to reach out the way he might have if he was seducing a young man at home but he wasn’t sure how welcome that might be. The most they’d done was hold hands, once, in the foothills below Weisshaupt, a safe platonic touch.

 

“You know my inclinations-”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And I- that is you’re- I assumed we were incompatible but then I heard those stories and-”

 

“Yes?”

 

Gods above how did this man turn him into such a fool? He hadn’t attempted a seduction so haphazard or clumsy since he was a pock-marked adolescent. He couldn’t remember ever being so tongue tied. Was it because of the Dread Wolf’s fearsome reputation? He didn’t think so, at least not entirely. And it couldn’t be looks alone-

 

Perhaps it was because here, in the Anderfels, he was diminished. His blood and birth right meant nothing. His not inconsiderable magical talent was apparently no more than an occasionally useful or interesting quirk-

 

This was ridiculous. He shouldn’t have come. He should have known better and yet it still seemed preferable to take the risk and be sure.

 

Solas’ expression had set studiously blank.

 

Dorian sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m making a complete hash of this.”

 

Solas waited patiently and Dorian sighed again.

 

“I am…extremely fond of you. And, if you were so inclined I would-”

 

Damned Lusacan this was a disaster. The look on Solas’ face was anything but encouraging.

 

“Gods above you are not this stupid – why are you making me spell this out?”

 

“Because whatever you may have heard to the contrary I cannot read your mind.” Solas told him gently. “I will only know what you want from me if you tell me.”

 

Dorian just about resisted the urge to pull out his hair in frustration.

 

“Please. You must know what I mean.”

 

Solas finally stood.

 

“You’re an incredibly intelligent and capable man, Dorian.” Solas observed. “What do you imagine might happen if I was to have an affair with someone of your status and country?”

 

“I-” Dorian began but Solas continued in the same soft tone.

 

“You must realise it’s a terrible idea?”

 

“I- Yes of course.” Dorian replied, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. “You’re right. You are absolutely right-”

 

What had he been thinking-

 

“Dorian-” And Solas sounded concerned, reached for him but Dorian had already turned, was already several paces away.

 

“I’m so sorry for bothering you.”

 

He slipped out into the hall way and made it to the stairs, half way down the flight before he stopped, sagging against the wall.

 

Gods how could he have been so stupid? How could he have thought-

 

Because Solas was witty, interesting, even charming when he made the effort and _venhedis_ would Solas even want to talk to him again?

 

Dorian swallowed. He needed a drink. Something to banish the ghost of Solas’ smile.

 

He took a deep breath, then another and headed out to get drunk.

 

-

 

He hadn’t told anyone when he was going to speak to Fen’Harel. He’d wandered in to one of Weisshaupt’s miserable excuses for a tavern, alone. He sat alone.

 

But before he’d finished his first drink a sizeable portion of Aclassi’s band of brigands had joined him.

 

Cremisius clapped a strong hand on his shoulder and bought him a bottle. The contents tasted like bile and vinegar which somehow seemed perfectly fitting.

 

Fenris went so far as to sit next to him for a while, although his conversation was somewhat lacking.

 

Jarvia’s contribution was chiefly talking about the frightful men she’d known in Orzammar and the more horrendous things she’d done to some of them. Dorian managed to tune most of it out.

 

When Fenris left Leliana took his place. She sat beside Dorian for several hours and he strongly suspected she spent most of that time watering down his wine.

 

But she was very good at…encouraging people to speak, even when they’d rather not. And Dorian had already resigned himself to the fact that almost everyone he knew in this blasted country would probably have all the details by sunrise.

 

It was actually surprisingly cathartic, talking to Leliana. She listened well, made Dorian the focus of her attention or at least gave that impression. And-

 

“What did he say?” She prompted.

 

Dorian sighed. “Something about not being able to read my mind. So then _I_ told him to stop toying with me and answer and he said…he said it was a terrible idea so I-”

 

Except, now that he thought about it, that wasn’t what Dorian had said exactly. And that wasn’t precisely how Solas had responded. He’d said-

 

“ _Fasta Vass!_ ” Dorian hissed, how could he have been so _stupid_.

 

“Dorian?” Leliana asked but he wasn’t really paying attention anymore.

 

Because that _len’alas elven bastard_ hadn’t actually given him a straight answer.

 

 _Again_.

 

For a moment it made him furious but then…he hadn’t actually asked a straight forward question.

 

Dorian groaned and gave in to the urge to put his head in his hands. Leliana murmured his name again and put a hand on his shoulder. He sighed and shrugged it off.

 

“I’m fine.” He told her almost entirely truthfully. “I’ve just realised that I’ve been even more idiotic than I’d thought. If you’d excuse me for a moment-”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Elvhen  
> Hahren- Elder  
> Telahi- Literally ‘not a dragon’  
> Len’alas- ‘Dirt children’, I’m taking this to mean ‘bastards’
> 
> Relevant Qunlat  
> Tama- Shortening of 'tamassaran' seems to be the cultural equivalent of 'mommy'


	18. In which there is a kiss

Gods this was ridiculous. The walk from the tavern was slightly sobering, still hot as dragon’s breath but somewhat alleviated by the rain. He remembered Solas explaining that the seasons were different, that soon it would rain almost nonstop-

 

And perhaps it was the effects of the Gods-forsaken-excuse-for-alcohol he’d consumed but as he trudged up the keep’s stairs all Dorian could think about was that he’d forgotten what month it was. Not the possibility of a definite rejection, not that Solas might be asleep by now but-

 

He couldn’t remember what month it was. It had been the beginning of Nubulis when he’d arrived but it had been…at least two months. It had gotten significantly hotter and it rained more often turning the plains from a dusty brown towards something that was trying to be green. Was it Moloiris already? Had he missed Andoralis?

 

It didn’t matter.

 

Dorian sighed and knocked softly on Solas’ door.

 

He was slightly surprised when Solas called for him to enter.

 

And then-

 

Well he was back where he had been a few hours ago, standing in the Dread Wolf’s room.

 

Solas looked as though he’d been pacing, whatever he’d been writing before abandoned on his desk. He caught Dorian’s eye for a moment and then looked away.

 

“I-”

 

“May I speak?” Dorian asked.

 

Solas sighed and gestured for him to do so. Dorian took a deep breath.

 

“It occurred to me that you didn’t give me a straightforward answer; which is perhaps my fault since I don’t think I asked you a straightforward question.”

 

He paused but Solas didn’t say anything.

 

“I want you.” Dorian said simply. “I’d like to know whether you feel the same way, in spite of whether it’s wise or what other people might think. If you don’t- well then I sincerely hope we remain friends, despite my earlier approach which was rude, immature and ill conceived. But if you do-”

 

He trailed off and Solas still didn’t answer.

 

Dorian sighed. “I’d simply…I want to know. One way or the other.”

 

Solas finally looked up from the floor.

 

“Do you understand that I…would have freed you whoever you were, whatever you had done, wherever you came from? That I would and could not leave you as you were in Arlathan?” He spoke softly, quietly and Dorian frowned.

 

“Yes. Of course-”

 

“You do not…owe me any debt. And even if you did I would not ask you to pay it like this.”

 

“I know. I- Is that why you think I’m doing this?”

 

“Is it?” Solas asked.

 

“ _No!_ ” Dorian protested. “Fasta vass, no! Of course not-”

 

“Then why me? You should know by now that merely associating with me will not earn you anyone’s respect-”

 

“And _you_ should know me well enough to realise I would not stoop to anything so… _crass!_ ” Dorian interrupted. “Gods above do you truly think so little of me?”

 

“No.” Solas whispered.

 

He looked away.

 

“You still haven’t answered me.” Dorian pointed out.

 

“I- There are _thousands_ of elves in this fortress,” Solas protested, although Dorian couldn’t for the life of him see how that was relevant.

 

He stepped closer and when Solas didn’t retreat Dorian risked another step. Until they were less than a pace apart, close enough to touch. They stared. Dorian’s attention flitted between Solas’ wide grey eyes and his lips. He wondered for a moment what Solas saw.

 

“I’m not sure I follow.” Dorian murmured finally.

 

“Would you not prefer-” Solas began and Dorian snorted.

 

“If I did I wouldn’t be here making a complete arse of myself would I?”

 

It got him something that was almost a smile.

 

“You haven’t answered my question.” Dorian reminded him.

 

“You haven’t answered mine.” Solas replied.

 

“Your- What did you ask?”

 

“Why me.” Solas stated and Gods he was serious.

 

“Do you really desire a list of your virtues?” Dorian enquired, smiling.

 

Solas shook his head. “I want to know whether you are asking me or the _Dread Wolf_. Because Dorian? The man who appears in Ander folktales doesn’t exist. Any more than the one in the Imperium’s propaganda does.”

 

“And neither would stoop to reading _Hard in Hightown_.” Dorian quipped.

 

“Be serious-”

 

“I am.” Dorian insisted.

 

He reached out, slowly, deliberately and Solas did not pull back. His fingers brushed along Solas’ cheek, his palm settled against Solas’ jaw. And Solas did not move away.

 

“You’re wet.” Solas murmured after a moment.

 

“I had noticed.” Dorian assured him.

 

The silence stretched so long and Solas didn’t answer. Dorian sighed.

 

“I think the first time I wanted to kiss you was the day before we arrived at Weisshaupt. I might have felt something similar before but I was rather distracted by the prospect of choosing between a lifetime of exile and several weeks with _my family_. I’m sure you understand?”

 

“Better than you know.” Solas murmured and Dorian smiled.

 

He ran his thumb over Solas’ cheekbone. He hadn’t said no, but he hadn’t said yes and-

 

And surely the _Dread Wolf_ was capable of telling Dorian to stop if he wished.

 

So Dorian leaned in, gently tilted Solas’ head towards his-

 

And kissed him.

 

It was incredibly chaste, all things considered but Solas’ lips were soft under his and he stepped in to it, closer to Dorian and-

 

He hadn’t actually said yes.

 

Dorian pulled back.

 

Solas’ had closed his eyes. They fluttered open as Dorian took half a step back, hand falling to his side and-

 

“I’m-” Dorian started, the beginnings of an apology.

 

Solas stopped it short with a finger on Dorian’s lips.

 

“Yes.”

 

-

 

The next kiss was better. Solas’ mouth opened as soon as their lips touched. He stepped forward, so that their bodies were pressed together and Dorian could wrap his arms around Solas and Gods everything about the taste and feel of his tongue and lips was thrilling.

 

They broke apart when Dorian gasped for air and Solas gave him a mildly disapproving look.

 

“You taste like rancid katikala.” Solas observed.

 

“Is that what it was? I did wonder. Aclassi gave it to me.”

 

“And you drank it.” Solas stated in a tone that implied it was incredibly foolish. “Will you remember this in the morning?”

 

“I’m not drunk.” Dorian retorted. “But if you’d rather wait til the morning-”

 

“Hmmmm,” Solas seemed to consider, his hands finally coming up to rest lightly on Dorian’s shoulders. “I think not.”

 

He tilted his head up and Dorian closed the gap, running his tongue along those gloriously soft lips. He’d imagined this as a battle or else that Solas would overwhelm him utterly, controlling their every touch. But instead Solas was pliant in his arms, allowing him to lead this time. Perhaps it was stupid but it made Dorian’s heart swell. He stroked his hands along Solas’ back and sides, getting some sense of muscles beneath that dull tunic. (That he was allowed to touch, that he could caress and taste-)

 

Solas pulled back, out of Dorian’s grip and he would have been disappointed but Solas was taking off his belt.

 

He moved towards the bed and Dorian followed, his mouth dry. Solas took his hand, laced their fingers together and paused.

 

“You’ve done this before?”

 

It sounded like a question. Dorian nodded.

 

“I have conditions-” Solas murmured.

 

“Of course you do.” Dorian smirked and it got him an annoyed frown.

 

“No magic. No bindings of any kind.” Solas stated in a tone that left no room for argument. “And if you invoke _any_ gods while you’re in my bed I _will_ throw you out of it.”

 

Dorian chuckled. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

 

He hesitated for a moment before drawing Solas close again, into another kiss. He cupped Solas’ face in both hands, making it slow and gentle and thorough. Solas’ fingers found Dorian’s belt, rested there, and it really was incredible how compliant he was.

 

They broke apart. Dorian lowered his hands, pushing the tunic from Solas’ shoulders, and then lower still to the edge of his undershirt, tugging it up. Solas raised his arms, letting Dorian strip him and with his chest uncovered Dorian couldn’t help but stare.

 

A prayer to Urthemiel came unbidden to his tongue. His mouth was open before Dorian managed to swallow it and Solas was looking at him, curious and-

 

“You’re beautiful.” Dorian murmured and the words didn’t seem to affect Solas at all.

 

“You disagree?” Dorian asked, it seemed almost blasphemous to think so, he couldn’t imagine Solas _didn’t_ know how handsome he was and yet-

 

Dorian skimmed his fingers over Solas’ ribs, traced the lines of muscle over his torso, as he waited.

 

“It is…sweet of you to think so,” Solas answered. “But largely irrelevant. Are you going to undress?”

 

Anders didn’t have time for fashion, clothing here was (for the most part) practical and plain. Most of the time Dorian missed Tevinter clothes, buckles and buttons and decorations-

 

But it _was_ certainly quicker to strip to the waist.

 

For a moment Solas stared and the smile that put on Dorian’s face _may_ have been a little smug.

 

Then Solas took his hand and backed on to the bed; until he was lying across it, propped up on one arm, tugging Dorian gently after him. Dorian followed, framing the elf’s slender body.

 

Solas melted against the bed when Dorian kissed him. His hands on Dorian’s skin were cautious, tentative and they paused at the hair on the small of Dorian’s back, carding through it. He didn’t really think about it at the time, he was rather too busy taking Solas’ body for the glorious gift it was.

 

He ran his hands over as much of Solas’ skin as he could reach, exploring his musculature, rolling fingers against his nipples. He followed much of the path his hands had taken with his mouth, kissing and sucking his way down Solas’ neck, along his shoulder, over his chest-

 

It made him gasp and writhe in a way that was quite pleasing.

 

Then Dorian’s hands skimmed down tracing the outline of Solas’ hardening cock against his leggings. It earned him a sharp, stuttering breath and they would _have_ to do this again because the noises Solas made were exquisite.

 

He ran his hand over the top of Solas’ thigh, taking his mouth back to a nipple. Solas shuddered and shifted, spreading his legs wider, bending so that Dorian’s hand could explore the back of his thigh and drift down. Dorian moved to suck Solas’ neck while his hand drifted further and Solas _moaned_ and bucked and _Gods_ they were wearing far too much clothing.

 

Dorian pulled back, grinning down at Solas’ dazed expression, the way his eyes had blown so wide and his bottom lip turned red from biting-

 

“May I?” Dorian enquired, his hand coming back up to the waistband of those ridiculous leggings.

 

Solas swallowed and nodded.

 

Dorian rolled off just long enough to tug off the remainder of his clothes before peeling away the last of Solas’ layers. He didn’t even really look before he clambered back on top of Solas, rubbing their hips together in a way that made Solas buck and was bliss-

 

He leaned over enough for a kiss, open mouthed and lazy, while he ground his hips down making Solas moan into his mouth and gasp for air. He wasn’t sure how long they kept going like that, just that it got to a point and he knew he needed more.

 

Dorian broke their kiss, shifted, putting his weight on one arm, so that he could wrap his hand around both of them and stroke-

 

Solas’ head fell back, his body arched. He made a sound that might have been Elvhen or Ander or just a groan. Dorian gripped them both tighter and bit his lip as Solas came apart.

 

It was fascinating and intensely erotic, watching all those masks crack. Dorian found he couldn’t take his eyes from Solas’ face, the way _that_ grip made him screw his eyes shut and practically thrash in Dorian’s arms, the way that particular rhythm made him look at Dorian-

 

Gods above he could get drunk all over again on this alone.

 

He stared until he couldn’t hold himself in check any longer, planting desperate sloppy kisses on Solas’ mouth and cheek and neck as his hand sped up around them both. And perhaps it was the change of pace but Solas reacted as if Dorian had sent lightning through his body, his hands scrambling at Dorian’s shoulders as his breath caught around a loud ‘AH’-

 

And then he was cumming, falling back against the mattress in a loose, boneless mess, staring up at Dorian, eyes glazed, as though he was the most wonderful thing in the world.

 

He shivered as Dorian’s hand kept going and _Lusacan_ after that it didn’t take Dorian very long at all before he was panting, finishing and struggling not to just collapse on top of Solas.

 

After a shaky breath he managed to roll to the side. For a while they lay, side by side and Solas seemed content enjoying the afterglow-

 

Gods above, Dorian thought, he’d just had sex with _The Dread Wolf_.

 

It almost made him laugh.

 

Solas’ fingers brushed against his hip and when Dorian turned there was a small, uncertain, smile on his face. He couldn’t remember seeing Solas look uncertain about anything before.

 

“You’re a mess.” Dorian pointed out and Solas made a noise that might have been agreement or protest.

 

He waved vaguely in the direction of his cupboards and they opened obligingly. Dorian propped himself up on an elbow and watched as Solas managed to drag a cloth across the room with a spell, catching it when it reached the bed. It was somehow incredibly _Solas_ , all that magical finesse and power and _of course_ he would use it because he was feeling too lazy to get out of bed.

 

“I think that’s the most frivolous waste of magic I’ve ever seen.” Dorian observed smiling.

 

“And this from an Altus of Tevinter.” Solas murmured as he wiped himself clean.

 

It was gentle and teasing and thoughtless and it made Dorian feel warm inside.

 

He grinned, leaned over Solas to press their lips together in a quick kiss before he had to get up.

 

Solas’ smile faltered when Dorian sat up. His hand drifted over the skin of Dorian’s back while Dorian retrieved his underwear, his trousers.

 

The fingers on his back fell away and when Dorian looked down Solas’ calm mask was in place again. He…wasn’t entirely sure what that meant but he put the hint of discomfort aside to give Solas his warmest smile.

 

He took his time getting dressed and combing his hair back into some semblance of order with his fingers. Solas watched but didn’t move. He looked so tempting, sprawled naked across the sheets that Dorian half wanted to crawl over and ravish him again.

 

But his mask was back in place and Dorian had been in more than enough illicit affairs to know not to push for more. So he smiled wider, thanked Solas-

 

And went to his own bed perfectly content.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Amharic  
> Katikala- Ethiopian moonshine, made from distilling a mixture of wheat kernels, barley, a shrub called gesho and basically anything else that comes to hand. Around 40-45% alcohol. Author has not actually tried it and had quite a bit of difficulty finding Ethiopian drinks that sounded unpleasant. This may say quite a bit about my tastes. Lets assume some fool thought it was a good idea to mix it with corked-wine and Dorian was stupid enough to drink the results.


	19. In which Dorian blames Fenris

It was perfect or at least so close to it that Dorian couldn’t tell the difference.

 

Outwardly nothing had changed, they talked, they worked together and it was every bit as satisfying as before. Except now, when they were alone, Dorian could step closer, press their lips together and swirl his tongue into Solas’ mouth like he owned it. Now he could slip his hands under Solas’ tunic and map the feel of his chest and back.

 

Now he could steal breathlessly into Solas’ room in the night and revel in the feel of Solas’ slender hands around him, of his on Solas, while he tried to memorise every moan and sigh he managed to drag from Solas’ lips.

 

It was everything Dorian had ever dared to hope for.

 

Which of course meant it all went terribly wrong within a fortnight. And it was all Fenris’ fault.

 

-

 

He came to Dorian’s room while Jarvia was out with a book and a solemn expression.

 

“Something you need?” Dorian asked.

 

“A translation.” Fenris stated, holding out the book. “You speak Fereldan do you not?”

 

“I do.” Dorian admitted and waited.

 

“Then I would be grateful if you translated this for me.” Fenris said finally, with rather less snarl than Dorian had expected.

 

Dorian took the book. The title had faded off the cover, it was a medium weight and thickness. And the Dread Wolf’s forces were organised more around friendships and indebtedness than an actual structure-

 

He wondered if Fenris’ gratitude might extend to calling Dorian something other than ‘mage’.

 

“’The Search for Shartan’?” Dorian asked when he flipped it open. “Why do you want to read this Andrastian trash?”

 

Fenris’ face set. “If you can’t bring yourself to make the effort mage-”

 

“I didn’t say that.” Dorian interrupted, keeping his tone light. “Would you like it written, read out or a summary of the contents?”

 

“Read it to me.” Fenris demanded.

 

Dorian sat and gestured offhand for Fenris to do the same. He wondered if Fenris couldn’t read, most slaves in the Imperium weren’t taught. Perhaps Fenris had spent an hour in the library trying to find the right book in the wrong language. Or may be he really did just require a translation.

 

“I doubt we’ll be able to get through the whole thing today.” Dorian observed but Fenris didn’t seem to mind.

 

Dorian read the first chapter silently before going back to the beginning and reading it out in Tevene. The process was surprisingly absorbing, trying to communicate the context and the content. Dorian thought it was quite relaxing and had been content to keep to the same pattern throughout, reading, returning to the start of the chapter and translating. But Fenris apparently found the stretches of silence dull.

 

After a while he tried to fill them. It hadn’t been particularly bad at first, a little distracting but not terribly so. They’d stayed on the relatively safe subject of religion for the first three chapters. Fenris had seemed a little put out that Dorian wasn’t horribly offended by his blaspheming against the Gods.

 

And then Fenris had shifted, considered something and changed the subject.

 

“Your…dalliance with the Dread Wolf-”

 

Dorian smiled into the book.

 

“What about it?”

 

“How did you persuade him?”

 

Dorian’s smile vanished.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“How did you persuade him?” Fenris repeated, he sounded mildly curious as though he was completely ignorant of the implication.

 

Dorian kept the book firmly in his hands. It served as a reminder not to conjure anything unpleasant.

 

“Fenris if you’re trying to suggest that I strong-armed _Fen’Harel_ into bed with me merely because I am a human and he is an elf then I am going to be offended.”

 

“No.” Fenris stated, then paused. “I doubt it’s possible to force the Dread Wolf to do anything he doesn’t wish.”

 

Dorian turned back to the book with a ‘hmph’. Unfortunately Fenris continued.

 

“You seemed very sure he didn’t want you and then suddenly he did. I was curious, how did you persuade him?”

 

“Do you want me to translate this book or not?” Dorian snapped.

 

Fenris fell silent.

 

-

 

Except by that point he’d already planted the seed. It didn’t matter that Fenris only spent another hour in Dorian’s room or that the rest of their conversation stayed on safe topics. He kept going back to it, kept wondering-

 

And it was _stupid_ to doubt of course no one could make Solas do anything, Dorian certainly hadn’t _made_ Solas do anything-

 

But-

 

But the more he thought about it the more Dorian began to realise just how unlike his previous affairs this was. The more it seemed like something was wrong.

 

It hadn’t been obvious to him at first, it wasn’t in what Solas _did_ -

 

It was what he didn’t do.

 

He never initiated, he never led. If they kissed it was because Dorian decided to kiss Solas and it made him wonder. It made him doubt.

 

Which was ridiculous because surely if Solas _didn’t_ want Dorian’s attention he’d have said something? If he didn’t want to continue he would have stopped it. He would have. Of course he would have, why wouldn’t he? Why continue any sort of affair if it wasn’t pleasurable? But then why continue one and never ask for so much as a kiss?

 

Was it Solas’ way of being discrete? No that couldn’t be it, he was far too happy to be seen in public with Dorian for that. Platonically at least. But it couldn’t be the carnal aspect of their relationship either because Anders didn’t _have_ taboos against men desiring their own kind.

 

Perhaps he didn’t enjoy it.

 

But then why would he have said yes in the first place? Why would he have let Dorian continue?

 

At home Dorian would have suspected he was being manipulated, that the man was trying to ruin him or break his heart. But the Dread Wolf wasn’t cruel.

 

So why did he never approach Dorian? Why did he always seem slightly…disappointed when Dorian left?

 

What was he doing wrong?

 

-

 

In the end he’d decided to test it. Aclassi was making a short trip to one of the Warden outposts in the eastern Hunterhorn lowlands, a little less than a week outside of Weisshaupt. As the day approached he avoided Solas.

 

Well, no, that wasn’t quite true, Dorian was perfectly civil. But they didn’t kiss and he didn’t go to Solas’ bed.

 

If Fen’Harel noticed he didn’t show it. But surely after a week or so without contact, he would. And then he’d be bound to realise that if Dorian wasn’t going to do anything then Solas should?

 

Surely?

 

-

 

Dorian spent the trek up the mountains distracted and out of sorts.

 

When they came home he gave Solas his most charming smile.

 

And Solas smiled back, but he didn’t do anything more.

 

-

 

It was utterly intolerable. It felt like the Gods were tormenting him, putting everything he could possibly want in the form of a man who didn’t seem to care.

 

More than a week apart and Solas didn’t want so much as a kiss!

 

So, with grace and maturity, Dorian had decided to get drunk. And he _had_ been prepared to spend all night in that dingy little bar Jarvia favoured, drinking the katikala Solas hated-

 

But a mere three drinks in it occurred to him that-

 

Gods he was such a fool, Solas was an _elf_. A true elf! The man was immortal _of course_ a week meant next to nothing. And their culture- it was markedly different to the rest of Thedas. Perhaps-

 

Perhaps there was something here he was missing. Some custom he didn’t know about.

 

A misunderstanding rather than a slight.

 

Dorian drummed his fingers on the bar briefly and sighed. He could hardly ask Solas and that left one other option.

 

He took a steadying swig of katikala and headed towards the stables.

 

-

 

He found Banal’ras tending to something large, horned and hairless and dithered a moment at the beast’s stall.

 

“I…wondered if I might ask for some advice?”

 

She didn’t respond, which Dorian took to be acquiescence.

 

“You see it occurred to me that I know virtually nothing about Elvhen culture- That is to say everything that I _do_ know I learnt in the Imperium and given our respective histories it seems likely that it’s all highly inaccurate and even then we didn’t exactly cover courtship in our- Of course I realise that _you’re_ not precisely ‘Elvhen’ in the traditional sense and obviously there are things from your homeland you reject and there’s clearly all sorts of cultural influences contributing to the fort and I realise that if one is immortal that presumably means a certain flexibility is inevitable but-”

 

“Speak plainly.” She instructed without turning round.

 

Dorian took a deep breath.

 

“Does he want me?” It wasn’t what he’d meant to say but it spilled out in a rush.

 

Banal’ras turned and gave Dorian a thoughtful frown.

 

“You wouldn’t be in his bed if he did not.”

 

That was less comforting than it probably should have been.

 

“He’s-” Dorian began and shook his head. “There’s something wrong and I don’t know what it is.”

 

Banal’ras made a considering noise and turned briefly back to the beast. Her hands smoothed over the wrinkled skin around it’s ears and the creature let out a loud, low snort.

 

“What form of esha are you, Telahi?” She asked.

 

“I…don’t know. I don’t exactly know what it means.” Dorian admitted.

 

“Impotent.”

 

Dorian sputtered. “Excuse _me?_ ”

 

Banal’ras gave an unrepentant shrug. “You are impotent with women, yes?”

 

“I…suppose that is one way of looking at it.”

 

A rather insulting and presumptuous one. Although in comparison to the Imperium’s view that he was somehow selfish for _not_ breeding it was perhaps marginally more acceptable.

 

And he would have liked to spend some time considering what exactly that said about linguistics and the Elvhen view of the world in general but Banal’ras had fixed him with a hard stare.

 

“But you are not impotent with men.”

 

He wished she’d stop calling him ‘impotent’. “I thought we’d established that?”

 

“Are you also telvhenan?” She asked sharply.

 

Dorian sighed. “Madam I do not _speak_ Elvhen. I have no idea what you’re asking me.”

 

“There is no Common word.” Banal’ras responded and _no_ of course there wasn’t.

 

Dorian wondered if it was even relevant. But she appeared to believe it was and she knew Solas.

 

It was just that Dorian was beginning to suspect he wouldn’t like whatever it was she was trying to say.

 

“Well can you describe the concept at least?”

 

She turned back to the animal.

 

“Some one who does not love after the common fashion.”

 

“That is not a helpful answer.” Dorian pointed out.

 

She glared at him as if her inability to communicate was somehow Dorian’s fault.

 

“Tel is ‘without’.” She stated, blunt and implacable. “Vhenan is ‘heart’.”

 

“I-”

 

Heartless. She was asking if he was heartless-

 

Dorian took a deep breath and walked away.

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Elvhen  
> Esha- Adjusted from ‘asha’. The idea was to suggest a system similar to more traditional Sanskrit where the literal translation of terms for gender is first, second and third ‘kind’. I used ‘I’ to denote male based on the lethallin/lethallan distinction and ‘E’ to denote neutral based on ‘hahren’ apparently being gender neutral.  
> Tel- Negation, ie Tel’x ‘not x’  
> Telvhenan- Heartless. Literally not [having] a heart  
> Vhenan- Heart, a common endearment.
> 
> Further Notes on Gender
> 
> I mentioned before that I’d based the Elvhen notion of gender in this fic on some old Indian ones, where gender is divided into male, female and third ‘kind’. The distinguishing feature of the third gender (as I understand it) is an inability to reproduce due to physical features or desire (ie a gay man ‘won’t’ reproduce ‘naturally’ as he doesn’t desire women). I’m having difficulty accessing my online source right now, but from what I can remember the literal translations of old Vedic terms for types of third gender people are blunt, to the point and often sound offensive. And I’ve taken that into the Elvhen, hence Banal’ras feeling perfectly entitled to call Dorian ‘impotent’. Her understanding of gay men is, literally, ‘impotent with women’.


	20. In which love is like a thorn in your heart

He knew that going to Solas’ room was foolish. The sensible thing would have been to wait, to allow himself to calm and approach the situation rationally. But-

 

_Heartless-_

 

It was foolish and it would serve him right if Solas took offence and discarded him but-

 

Dorian needed to know where he stood. So of course like an idiot he charged up to Solas’ room and barged straight in.

 

The shock on Solas’ face stopped him short more efficiently than any spell. It made him feel briefly ashamed for being so uncharacteristically discourteous. Then Solas stepped forward, his expression changing to concern. His hand fluttered for an indecisive moment in the air before coming to rest gently on Dorian’s arm.

 

“Are you well?”

 

Gods he couldn’t cope with that tenderness, not now. Dorian looked away.

 

“This is ridiculous.” Dorian muttered.

 

“I doubt it.” Solas replied and-

 

Be blunter, Banal’ras had said, it felt like a lifetime ago.

 

“Do you _want_ me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The answer was instant and emphatic, no slight pause for thought. It should have been comforting. Instead it made Dorian break away from Solas’ gentle grip to scrub his hands through his hair.

 

“Then _why_ in the Gods’ names do you _never_ -”

 

 _Zazikel_ why couldn’t he even finish that question?

 

“Why do I never what?” Solas asked softly.

 

He hadn’t moved.

 

“You never _initiate_ anything!” Dorian ground out. “You never _ask_ for anything! You-”

 

He didn’t really know how to express it, the crawling feeling that something about Solas’ passive acceptance was _wrong_. The instinct that anyone who truly desired him would have needed some sort of touch after a week without. The fear that he was being toyed with-

 

Dorian took a deep breath. Solas waited.

 

“You told me once that you couldn’t read my mind, well I certainly can’t read yours. _What_ do you want from me?!”

 

“Everything you’re willing to give.” Solas told him softly. “For as long as you are willing and able to give it.”

 

He shifted, glanced at the floor and the window before finally settling with his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

 

“For a long time the only people in Weisshaupt were the remnants of my army.” He began slowly and Dorian couldn’t see the relevance but Solas continued. “A great many, the majority, were once enslaved and at times-”

 

He trailed off briefly, shook his head. “With enough time and repetition behaviour becomes ingrained. If I’m cautious it does not mean I lack desire; it’s because I have learnt not to presume and that sometimes requests can be interpreted as orders.”

 

He looked up, finally, meeting Dorian’s eyes and he was utterly serious. Dorian wasn’t quite sure what to…make of that.

 

“I was a slave for all of two hours Solas.” He pointed out eventually. “I doubt it applies-”

 

“But you were raised to think of the Dread Wolf as a monster in the dark. And you were mistreated for your nature. Badly enough that you wanted to stay here-”

 

“I don’t see how-” Dorian swallowed. “How that’s relevant.”

 

Solas gave him a look that made Dorian fidget uncomfortably. As if he could sense the lie and thought it…rude.

 

“There’s also an imbalance of power.” Solas said softly, as if he hadn’t been pulling the ground from under Dorian’s feet with every word, every simple statement of fact. “I am stronger than you. In every sense.”

 

There was no arrogance in his tone. He said it in the same way he might have pointed out that the mountain range Weisshaupt was built in to was higher than the eastern edge of the Hunterhorn ridge and lower than the High Reaches to the north. It was unsettling and it made Dorian protest automatically.

 

For a moment Solas’ eyes glowed green.

 

He leapt forward, faster than a snake, so that Dorian had barely processed that he was moving before Solas’ hands were on him, buried in his Ander-style tunic. Then there was a disorientating lurch and Dorian was tumbling. He had just enough time to let out a panicked gasp and then it was over and he’d gone from standing with Solas several feet away to lying on his back, one arm pinned with Solas crouched over his chest.

 

He stayed there for a moment, with Dorian breathing hard under him, then he let go. He stepped away and knelt, impassive as a statue while Dorian scrambled a few paces back. They stared at each other and _Gods_ Dorian could feel how dishevelled he must have been but _Solas_ looked exactly the same.

 

All this to prove a point.

 

Dorian tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. Breathed until he could do it at a regular pace-

 

When he looked back Solas hadn’t moved.

 

“Was that supposed to frighten me?” Dorian asked, he couldn’t help the edge in his voice.

 

“Partly.” Solas admitted. “I thought it might distract you-”

 

“From our argument?”

 

“From whatever the source of your distress is.” He paused, glanced somewhere to the side of his knee and back. “Did it work?”

 

The shock from Solas’ dissection of their affair had faded with the adrenaline. And if he didn’t think about it then- He could put ‘telvhenan’ aside like ‘invert’ rather than have it claw at his insides, just another insinuation that he was somehow deformed.

 

Dorian sighed. “You’re lucky I didn’t set you on fire.”

 

“It wouldn’t have worked if you’d tried.”

 

“You are utterly insufferable sometimes.” Dorian observed and it shouldn’t have affected him so but the way Solas’ lips twitched into a smirk made him feel-

 

Made him feel.

 

“I am aware.” Solas assured him.

 

They were silent, not quite long enough for it to become awkward.

 

“May I make a request?” Solas enquired.

 

“I suppose-”

 

“I want you to penetrate me.” Solas said and Dorian felt like his heart had stopped dead in his chest.

 

“You _what?!_ ” Dorian stammered and Solas gave him a small, smug, smile. “Here? _Now_?”

 

“I’d prefer the bed to the floor. If you’re willing?”

 

“I-”

 

 _Gods_ he should really refuse it was- _Dumat_ it was a shameful act. It wasn’t something anyone was supposed to desire. It was a deed selfish men manipulated vulnerable boys into suffering through not-

 

It was something you did to your inferiors.

 

“You realise,” Dorian choked out when he couldn’t stand Solas’ smug patience anymore. “That- what you’ve asked for is more or less the _ultimate_ sexual taboo in my country?”

 

Solas’ smile widened.

 

“Dorian Pavus, you do realise we are not in your country?”

 

“HA!” Dorian barked and staggered to his feet.

 

He offered Solas a hand and pulled him up. They stood for a moment, inches apart before Dorian gave in to temptation and kissed him.

 

Solas kissed as if he’d been waiting a month for Dorian’s touch. But when Dorian pulled back he didn’t lean in for more. Dorian sighed, his hand came up to stroke Solas’ cheek without really thinking about it.

 

“You’ll ask for that but you won’t pursue a kiss?”

 

“There’s a difference between requests and actions. And requests are easier to refuse.”

 

“You _can_ kiss me without invitation.” Dorian told him.

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Why?” Dorian asked, his other hand settled on Solas’ waist.

 

“Because trust takes time.”

 

“Which of us don’t you trust?” Dorian pulled him close and Solas came without resistance, the ghost of a laugh on his lips.

 

“Both? Chiefly myself.”

 

“Because I’ll break.” Dorian realised.

 

“Yes.”

 

Dorian pulled back and Solas stayed where Dorian had left him. Dorian sighed.

 

“Do you really want me to sodomise you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“There are…other things if you- I could use my mouth?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I don’t enjoy it.”

 

Dorian shook his head. Of course Solas would refuse the easier option. Of course he would.

 

“I- In the Imperium it’s seen as degrading. Shaming. Doing that to a man.”

 

“I promise you I will not be ‘shamed’.” Solas replied with a small smile. “Are you worried you won’t enjoy it?”

 

“Quite the opposite.” Dorian muttered.

 

“Have you done it before?”

 

He had. When he was younger. He’d done it drunk in whorehouses with lithe, dead-eyed elves and felt terrible about it in the morning.

 

But Solas- Solas was _asking_. Solas seemed to think they’d both enjoy the experience.

 

“Yes.” Dorian admitted finally. “Under less than honourable circumstances.”

 

Solas frowned but he didn’t ask for details, just if Dorian wished to- to do- Gods he was still having trouble wrapping his head around it.

 

But he did want to, and Solas wanted to. And then Solas was stepping back, dropping his belt to the floor, pulling his tunic over his head-

 

He stripped naked, quickly, efficiently and arranged himself on the bed like an offering. Dorian wasn’t even sure Solas knew what he was doing, what effect he was having. But the way he was spread out in the centre of the bed-

 

Dorian scrambled to get rid of his own clothes. As he fumbled with his tunic he caught Solas smirking and decided that the len’alas knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

 

He pointed Dorian in the general direction of one of the cupboards which sent Dorian scrambling after a small, plain jar. It wasn’t until he had it in his hand and was crawling over Solas that he thought he could perhaps have been _slightly_ more restrained, less eager.

 

Solas didn’t seem to mind. He arched up when Dorian ran his free hand along Solas’ side, moved when Dorian leaned in so that he could suck and nibble at Solas’ neck. He didn’t seem to mind the way Dorian clutched the jar until his knuckles stood out or that his hands shook when he finally screwed up enough courage to open the wretched thing.

 

Solas spoke to him throughout, a soft soothing murmur telling Dorian what to do. Except Solas didn’t phrase any of it as instructions. They were requests, pleases, a question in the tone as if he wasn’t quite sure Dorian _would_ touch him if he asked. As if he needed to say ‘please’-

 

His breath stuttered and hitched when Dorian slid the first grease-covered finger inside him. His hands tightened on Dorian’s shoulders. He leaned in to whisper encouragement in Dorian’s ear, to ask Dorian to move his finger in a specific way _please_ -

 

Solas let out a sharp _ah_ when Dorian did.

 

His instruction lost something of its coherence after that, turning slowly into a low breathless litany of pleading as Dorian did it again and again.

 

Dorian couldn’t remember ever being so hard in his life.

 

He shifted, smoothed a hand over Solas’ chest and eased him back down on to the bed. Until Solas was lying flat, spread out below him. All beautifully sculpted muscle and too-pale skin.

 

He started to flush when Dorian worked a second finger into him, a gentle pink that started at his cheeks and spread down into his neck and chest. It was captivating.

 

And it eased Dorian’s doubts, seeing Solas below him, hard and flushed and breathlessly begging for more. He almost wondered how he’d ever doubted Solas enjoyed his touch, wanted it and it occurred to him abruptly that perhaps that was the wrong question-

 

He put the thought aside. Clearly this was not the time.

 

Dorian crawled over him, putting soft kisses along the line of Solas’ collar bone, his neck, his cheek before ending at the corner of Solas’ lips.

 

Solas arched under him, and asked, voice cracking for Dorian to take him.

 

“What will you do if I don’t?” Dorian wondered.

 

“ _Please_!”

 

Dorian smiled into his neck. “Come now, that’s not an answer.”

 

“ _Dorian-_ ”

 

“What would you do?” Dorian murmured and he felt Solas tremble.

 

“I would feel- empty-” Solas panted finally. “And used.”

 

It sounded raw and honest and entirely too close to Dorian’s own experience.

 

“Please, Dorian-”

 

“Shhhhh,” Dorian whispered, kissing him, stroking his trembling sides as well as was possible. “I won’t.”

 

The look on Solas’ face made Dorian want to offer promises he couldn’t possibly hope to keep. Instead he eased his fingers out. He sat back. He greased his cock.

 

Solas bent one of his legs as Dorian leaned back over him-

 

It wasn’t anything like what Dorian remembered. It was tighter and Solas- Solas was responsive. His head fell back, eyes closed with an expression that could have been pain or ecstasy, as Dorian pushed slowly into him. His hands clenched in the bedsheets. He breathed in deep, quick, desperate gasps as if the air was going to escape and leave them drowning.

 

His hips bucked up as Dorian sank in another inch and he moaned, long and loud.

 

And then it was done. He’d buried himself in Solas to the hilt and Solas was panting beneath him, cock hard against his stomach, looking up at Dorian with his grey eyes blown wide as if Dorian was the most wonderful thing in the world.

 

Dorian shifted, leaning over Solas and it drove another forceful ‘ _ah’_ from Solas, made him arch and bite his lip hard-

 

 _Gods_ it was so hot and tight. He rolled his hips, a small, slow movement, mindful of the man underneath. It made Solas keen.

 

Dorian did it again. Slow and gentle and _Gods_ he couldn’t keep this up, he was going to snap any moment, just let loose and _take_ and Solas-

 

“ _Please!_ ” Solas groaned.

 

And Dorian’s self control snapped.

 

He thrust with enough force to move both of them further up the bed. He grabbed Solas’ thigh, pulled him back and thrust again. It tore sounds out of Solas, uninhibited, wanton and beautiful enough to praise Urthemiel for.

 

And everything Dorian had been taught told him a man couldn’t enjoy this, but Solas came to meet each thrust, moaned and whimpered and begged for more.

 

Dorian wanted to do it all night.

 

Which would have been impossible even if the sound of Solas panting desperately for breath, the flush on his chest and way his lips had fallen open, wasn’t the most erotic thing in all creation. It was tight and hot and perfect and Dorian had absolutely no desire to think of women or religion or anything else to extend it that little bit further.

 

He thrust once more and came. It seemed to last an Age. He kept thrusting, too fast, too brutal, drawing it out. Solas twisted beneath him until Dorian gathered him up in his arms, pulled him up into Dorian’s lap. He was shivering.

 

As Dorian’s orgasm finally began to fade he reached between them, taking Solas’ achingly hard cock in his hand and pumping.

 

He watched as Solas’ back arched, his hands scrambling at Dorian’s shoulders as he spasmed and shook. He squeezed tight around Dorian’s cock as he came, it felt glorious, practically transcendent.

 

He went limp in Dorian’s arms, head drooping forward on to Dorian’s shoulder. It made Dorian want to laugh. He restrained himself, settling for a simple kiss to Solas’ cheek before laying his lover down and easing himself out.

 

-

 

Afterwards, when they were clean, Dorian gathered Solas back into his arms. And Solas seemed surprised by it but he went without resistance.

 

Dorian sighed heavily. Because the Dread Wolf was an utter-

 

Because as much as they had both enjoyed themselves, it had been in part to end their conversation.

 

He thought about asking what ‘telvhenan’ meant. Instead-

 

“I thought you didn’t want me,” Dorian murmured. “I realise now that’s not true but I wasn’t entirely wrong. You’re unhappy. I simply jumped to the wrong conclusion as to the cause. Will you tell me what it is?”

 

He was silent so long Dorian wondered whether he should ask again.

 

Finally Solas sighed.

 

“Your parents didn’t love each other did they?”

 

“Is that relevant?” Dorian asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“No, they did not love each other.” Dorian answered, more caustic than he’d meant. “They despise each other.”

 

Solas’ hand crept over Dorian’s and gave a gentle, comforting squeeze.

 

“And the prevailing taboos made it impossible for you to express love for another man?”

 

“Yes.” Dorian admitted. “Where are you going with this?”

 

“Have you ever been in love, ma vhenan?”

 

The question made him feel like his mind had stuttered to a halt. It made him think of a hundred things in quick succession: the way a glimpse of a soporati’s muscular chest had struck him like a thunderbolt when he was ten, the brief torrid affair he’d had with Marcus and every wretched rumour the stinking Laetan had started afterwards, the way it had hurt when Secundus, polite but uninterested, had turned him down.

 

It all span so fast he didn’t manage to answer.

 

Solas twisted in his arms, turning until they were face to face.

 

“The emotion can’t be learned,” Solas murmured. “But the expression of it is. Would it be- Am I correct in assuming that your customs taught you not to be intimate with your lovers? To protect yourself with distance and harden your heart?”

 

He held Dorian’s gaze until Dorian had to look away.

 

“I- hadn’t thought of it like that.” Dorian said finally.

 

“Am I wrong?”

 

“No.”

 

“You were taught that love was something you couldn’t have.” Solas said softly. “And even if it had been allowed you had no examples to learn from.”

 

“I-what are you saying?” Dorian stammered although he had a terrible feeling he knew-

 

 _Ma vhenan_ \- and ‘vhenan’ meant ‘heart’-

 

 _Gods have mercy_ he was imagining it, it couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true. It-

 

Dorian swallowed but even so his voice came out cracked.

 

“Are you…in love with me?”

 

“Of course.”

 

 _Gods_ -

 

 _GODS_ -

 

Solas loved him. The _Dread Wolf_ was in love with him-

 

“Breathe.” Solas murmured and Dorian heaved in a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.

 

Solas stroked his cheek.

 

“I know you don’t love me.” Solas told him softly. “I am not going to demand that you do.”

 

“I-” Dorian began before taking another deep breath. “What does ‘telvhenan’ mean?”

 

Solas looked surprised. “You spoke to Banal’ras?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Solas frowned. After a moment he shifted, turning away from Dorian and lying with his back to Dorian’s chest. He seemed to be considering the ceiling.

 

“Telvhenan is a person who can not associate sex and love.” Solas said after a moment. “They can enjoy the act but they do not bond over it. They love the way a normal man might love his family or his friends. In traditional Elvhen society they’re deemed unfit for marriage because they can’t give their heart to one person.”

 

“You make it sound much less terrible than Banal’ras did.” Dorian observed.

 

His hand moved idly over Solas’ chest, stroking the stray curls of hair in the centre.

 

“She has many virtues but eloquence isn’t one of them. I imagine she gave you a literal translation?”

 

“She did.”

 

They lay there for a while, Dorian’s hand roaming aimlessly over Solas’ chest while he tried to think of…something he could say.

 

“It’s not that I’m incapable.” Dorian murmured finally. “It’s- In the Imperium…you learn not to hope for more. And I- I suppose you _are_ right, I’m…unused to expressing affection and I had particularly poor examples to learn from.”

 

“I would like you to have more.” Solas replied. “Instead of merely hoping for it.”

 

“I-”

 

“I am willing to wait.”

 

“Are you sure?” Dorian wondered. “Because it seems to me that all ‘waiting’ is doing is making you unhappy.”

 

“Love is a form of pain, Dorian. It is a thorn in a living heart. Anyone who says differently is lying.”

 

Dorian snorted.

 

“That sounded very much like an Elvhen quote.”

 

“Ander.” Solas corrected and Dorian could hear the smile in his tone.

 

“What do you want from me?” Dorian asked.

 

It made Solas tense under his hands.

 

“I won’t take it as an order.” Dorian assured him. “But as things stand- I believe that I’m hurting you and I don’t want that. What do you want?”

 

Solas didn’t answer for a moment. In the pause his hand found Dorian’s and their fingers laced together.

 

“Intimacy. Companionship. This?”

 

Lying together in the warm Anderfel night, with nothing between them, talking. Poetry and philosophy and pain. How very Solas.

 

He drew Solas’ hand up to his lips and planted a kiss on the knuckles.

 

“Would you like me to stay the night?” Dorian asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Elvhen
> 
> Tel- Negation, ie Tel’x ‘not x’  
> Telvhenan- Heartless. Literally not [having] a heart  
> Vhenan- Heart, a common endearment.
> 
> Also now I look back over this it seems weird in a non-Christian society to use 'sodomise' but I couldn't think of a suitable old-fashioned term to replace it with. Oh well.


	21. In which it rains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after 5 years work and 4 months waiting I've just heard that I need to do another round of corrections on my thesis. I'm not in a good place right now. My responses may not be timely and if I come across rude, snappish or depressed I'm sorry.

It should have been strange, sleeping with someone else. Especially when Solas curled close. But (and perhaps it was because he was sleeping next to a Dreamer?) Dorian slept easily, deep and content.

 

He woke to the sunlight streaming through Solas’ windows and the Dread Wolf sprawled over his chest.

 

Dorian stroked absently at Solas’ shoulder and Solas stirred.

 

“Good morning.” Dorian greeted.

 

Solas murmured something Elvhen and half-coherent. It made Dorian smile although-

 

“I’m afraid you aren’t umm-”

 

Solas took the hint and rolled off him, letting Dorian breath somewhat more easily. For a while Dorian stared at the ceiling. He wondered what the protocol was. Clearly he didn’t _have_ to sneak away, did that mean he should wait for Solas to rouse and go down to breakfast with him? Would leaving seem like another attempt at putting distance between them? On the other hand Dorian didn’t have any clean clothes so at least a brief trip back to the room he shared with Jarvia seemed wise-

 

Except Jarvia would know he hadn’t spent the night in his own bed and might well want to talk about it-

 

Perhaps clothing was unnecessary. Perhaps he could persuade Solas that spending the rest of the day naked in bed was the perfect use of their time.

 

He turned and found that Solas still seemed to be at least half asleep but he was smiling, soft and warm. Dorian reached across without thinking to cup his cheek. Solas leaned into the touch.

 

“If I said you were more biddable when you’re half asleep what would you do?” Dorian murmured.

 

“Bite.”

 

Dorian chuckled while Solas screwed his eyes shut as if he was trying to will the sunlight away.

 

“It’s not raining is it?” Solas asked.

 

“No.” Dorian replied.

 

Solas swore and rubbed his eyes.

 

“I take it, it should be?”

 

“The rains are going to be late.” Solas announced with a sigh.

 

“Is that important?” Dorian wondered.

 

“If you wish to continue eating, yes.” He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll need another gathering of mages and a ritual to set it right. The Sylvans will probably arrive soon whether we want them to or not- I should send word to the Wardens at Hossberg and the Laysh Circle.”

 

He didn’t move. Clearly remaining in bed was preferable to even thinking about Andrastian mages, much less preparing to contact them.

 

“Don’t you have enough mages here to perform this ritual?” Dorian asked.

 

“Hmm? Yes, of course. But if we don’t at least inform them they’ll feel slighted.”

 

“Ah politics,” Dorian said smiling and sitting up. “You could try barricading the gates and leaving the possessed trees to deal with the Andrastians? No?”

 

“No.”

 

“Are you sure? Please, tell me what you think. That withering glare is far too subtle-”

 

“You’re insufferable.” Solas groaned.

 

“If you’re suffering so much I could leave?” Dorian suggested.

 

He even went as far as the edge of the bed, but Solas grabbed at him blindly and pulled him back. Dorian fell, laughing and Solas grumbled something into the skin near his shoulder blades and-

 

Really it wasn’t that surprising that it took them more than an hour to get out of bed.

 

-

 

The Sylvans arrived three days later, a motley shambling forest with towering figs and oranges leading small, twisted pomegranates. There were several broad-leafed glossy things Dorian couldn’t identify, some as large as the fig trees and some smaller than the pomegranates.

 

He sat with Jarvia on the walls and watched the procession. By the time the trees reached the gates it seemed like half the Fort was up there with them, watching.

 

Solas went out to greet them.

 

And it didn’t matter that Solas talked about them as if they were people, old acquaintances. It didn’t matter that the Dread Wolf had obviously done this hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of times. He looked so small down there. Small and ordinary and sunburnt surrounded by huge, monstrous things that could crush him so easily.

 

Dorian drew a breath and held it.

 

But nothing happened. Solas went out and spoke and the trees bent to listen and to respond in deep, creaking voices like wood rasping against dry wood. After a while Solas gestured and Adaar and a Qunari who was presumably his sister stepped out of the gateway. They talked a while longer and then Solas gestured Dagna forward.

 

It took Dorian an embarrassingly long time to realise he was observing a maddeningly prolonged introduction. The sort of old fashioned frustrating Ander ritual that saw you asking after protégés, allies, children (or presumably seedlings), before actually getting down to the business of why you were there.

 

The Sylvans did the same, the orchard rearranging itself so that Solas could be properly acquainted with individual apricot trees. Dorian wondered idly whether he would be down there one day, Solas waving him forward to stand under the looming, possessed trees. If they continued then…then it was probably inevitable.

 

He wasn’t sure whether he should feel terrified or honoured at the thought.

 

He tried to imagine it, becoming not just an Anderman or a part of Weisshaupt’s sprawling mongrel tribe but part of Fen’Harel’s inner circle. Standing beside Solas in the dappled light beneath the creaking, twisting, _speaking_ trees.

 

Jarvia yawned. It startled Dorian out of his daydream and she thumped her fist, once, against his back.

 

“Well that’s going to go on for fucking hours.” She declared, getting to her feet. “I’m gonna find a drink. You coming?”

 

-

 

He found that Solas always curled close and that sleep with a Dreamer sometimes involved falling into his dreams.

 

Solas’ smiles came easier in the Fade.

 

Dorian tried not to think too deeply about that.

 

He spent more nights in Solas’ bed and he tried not to think too deeply about that either.

 

-

 

One night, his fingers tangled with Dorian’s, he asked if Dorian would help them with the rain.

 

And Dorian knew he really should ask what the ritual involved exactly, how it worked, who else would be taking part-

 

But the way Solas said it didn’t sound like a request for assistance with an important but somewhat routine task-

 

It sounded like ‘stay with me’.

 

And he knew that the Andrastians and the Wardens were both less than a week away now, that Aclassi was planning a trip south because Kal-Sharok had been having trouble with dragons again and Aclassi would have assumed that Dorian was coming and-

 

Dorian murmured his agreement to the ceiling. Solas smiled and rested his head on Dorian’s shoulder.

 

-

 

Aclassi took Dorian’s absence in his stride, possibly because Dorian had tried to cajole Adaar into taking his place.

 

Leske made an obscene gesture that Dorian ignored. Nightingale gave him one of her knowing smiles.

 

- 

 

It had been a very long time since he’d taken part in any kind of ritual. He’d stopped going to temples almost as soon as he was old enough to get away with it and the very nature of Magisterial politics tended to encourage solitary pursuits. The military rarely had time for anything elaborate and the end result was that the last time had been-

 

Even if it hadn’t Dorian thought he might have had mixed feelings about this Anderfels rain-ritual. It certainly wasn’t like anything from the Imperium, no pomp and ceremony, no robes or special room, just a dozen of the fort’s people camped around some sort of somnoborium at the mountain’s base. A scruffy, dusty, eclectic collection of individuals, some of whom were following Dagna’s deft directions but most of them were simply…waiting.

 

It was far too hot to wait.

 

Dorian _might_ have indulged in some slightly excessive ice magic. Purely to relieve the temperature and in no way connected to the undignified mess of spontaneous sparring some of the younger mages fell into.

 

Not at all.

 

For some reason his denials made Solas smirk.

 

-

 

The most surprising thing about both the Wardens and Andrastians was how very unremarkable they were. Or perhaps he’d become more used to Weisshaupt than he’d thought, blinder to differences in cut of clothe and style of armour. Signs of allegiance that would have been important in the Imperium, and faded to nothing among the sprawling mob within Weisshaupt’s walls.

 

The Andrastians looked as though they’d travelled a considerable distance and the Templars in particular looked as though they were suffering for it. The Wardens looked as if they could march the rest of the day and would happily charge into a Rift at the end of it.

 

He tried not to stare at the marks on their hands.

 

Thankfully they didn’t have to endure the arduous introductions the Sylvans apparently insisted on. Instead they started on the ritual almost straight away, with little more than a nod of acknowledgement passing between Solas and what were presumably the highest ranking Wardens and Andrastians. And the spell itself was startlingly complex, nuanced, refined over Ages but the part most of the mages played in the ritual was shockingly simple. They would do little more than channel power through the orb while Solas-

 

Solas stepped forward and put his hands on the somnoborium. His eyes flared the green of a rift, until he closed them, head bowed. The leader of the small band of Wardens stepped forward and put a steady, dark hand on his shoulder. They built up a line of mages in that way, outwards from the orb, power flowing through and around them like nothing Dorian had ever seen.

 

The sky above them flickered greens and blues and purples. The air smelt of clouds and lightning.

 

And the ritual went on.

 

-

 

The first two hours were mostly dull, by the third he’d started to notice some strain. By the sixth he’d started to feel truly tired. But he could see Solas in the centre, impassive and implacable and Dorian had no intention of letting him down.

 

He grit his teeth and carried on. He kept going until his head felt light. Until he was having trouble keeping his eyes open and focused. Until it felt like he’d been beaten with an iron bar.

 

Dorian swayed and staggered. He thought distantly that he might fall. Then there was a small, strong hand on his back, tugging him gently away.

 

He tried to struggle and Dagna’s voice shushed him.

 

“You’ve been up there almost nine hours, you need rest.” She told him. “There’s plenty of mages around to take your place.”

 

“Solas-” Dorian murmured.

 

“He’s been doing this for longer than anyone wants to think about.” Dagna replied. “Rest.”

 

She hustled him into a tent, Dorian wasn’t sure whose it was exactly, and on to a bedroll.

 

He was asleep almost as soon as his head reached the pillow. He didn’t dream.

 

-

 

He wasn’t sure how long he slept, but he woke with a grand, thumping giant of a headache and a rather desperate desire for breakfast. Possibly supper.

 

Dorian sat up. Next time he’d think more carefully before volunteering for one of Solas’ schemes, the aftereffects were apparently similar to a night in a tavern with Jarvia.

 

He staggered to his feet, vaguely aware that the tent had filled with exhausted mages, and headed for the door. Outside the ritual continued, although the participants had changed.

 

All except for Solas.

 

He looked like a statue in the centre-

 

Dorian looked away. As he was constantly being reminded the Dread Wolf could take care of himself. And anyway, breakfast was currently a more pressing issue.

 

He joined a small knot of people he vaguely recognised from the fort at one of the campfires. They had flat breads and pickle made from citrus peel and a sort of spicy fried meat that Dorian had no desire to question too closely.

 

He ate. Conversation flowed around him. Eventually he asked how long the ritual usually lasted.

 

Apparently it ‘only’ took three or four days.

 

-

 

In a shocking twist it turned out that if he _didn’t_ try to match Solas hour for hour the ritual was actually quite tolerable. Dorian made a point, after the first disastrous shift, not to push himself past six hours. It was still incredibly tiring.

 

Which was why, after his third shift, half-asleep and dazed from dreaming he made the mistake of sitting with the Andrastians.

 

He realised they were staring.

 

It was a little like the first months he’d spent in Weisshaupt, weighed and judged. Solas had warned him-

 

Perhaps he was becoming a stubborn Ander because he didn’t consider moving and unlike the first months in Weisshaupt, the first mission as part of Aclassi’s band, it didn’t take any real effort anymore.

 

For their part the Andrastians mostly seemed content to do little more than stand their ground as well. The older mages ignored him or shot him the sorts of warning frowns he’d once received from his father as if they were waiting for his inevitable faux-paus. The Templars were rather more open in their regard. They seemed to see him as a curiosity. But two of the younger mages, humans that were slightly pale for Anders, looked as though they were considering making trouble. It was the way they glanced at each other then at Dorian, the way they jostled each other.

 

Dorian sighed inwardly when they rose. He was quite sure Fenris never had to put up with anything like this and wished for a moment he could channel some of that curmudgeonly attitude.

 

Then the Andrastians had planted themselves in front of him, one pushed slightly forward by his friend. Because that was of course how these things were done. ‘I dare you to poke the Magister’-

 

“Can I help you?” Dorian enquired.

 

“Are you the ‘vint?”

 

Gods it had been a long time since he’d heard that word from anyone but Jarvia.

 

“I think you’ll find it’s pronounced _te_ vint _er_.” Dorian said mildly.

 

It didn’t seem to put them off as much as Dorian would have liked. There was a pause and the one in front shifted from foot to foot before blurting out-

 

“Are you a blood mage?”

 

Of course, how predictable.

 

“No.” He stated flatly.

 

And he tried, he honestly tried, not to think about it. But he could practically hear his father denouncing it as the mark of a weak mind, could practically see the ritual-

 

The foremost of the youths took a solid step back. Her friend shoved her forward again. They seemed to argue about it for a while, in whispered hisses that Dorian tried to ignore. He glanced over the other Andrastians and found himself sharing a long suffering expression with one of the older mages.

 

“- _all use blood magic_ -” The young mage in front of him insisted and-

 

Something in Dorian snapped.

 

He looked up, giving them one of his widest, brightest smiles.

 

“Well it certainly isn’t uncommon. Would you like to know what my father favours using it for?”

 

-

 

It was a rather more florid description of the ritual than he’d probably have given under other circumstances but it made the young woman in front of him turn almost green.

 

Which was pleasing right up until the point when Dorian realised that sordid little story would probably make it round Weisshaupt before sunset.

 

-

 

The sky changed colour as the ritual went on, darkening to a deep bruised purple. Until the clouds looked ripe. But there wasn’t an obvious sign when it would be over. It just got darker and darker until-

 

In the centre of the ritual Solas tilted his head up towards the clouds. He gave the clouds a small, almost shy, smile.

 

And the heavens opened.

 

-

 

It was torrential, like waves. By the time he’d made it to the road leading up the mountain Dorian was soaked to the bone. But it made the air cool and the walk back up to Weisshaupt easier than the march down had been.

 

The rain seemed to have lifted everyone’s mood, the road and the courtyard were far too full of children, dancing through puddles and playing.

 

Dorian wanted nothing more than to dry off and sleep. Accept the rain as a victory and claim some well deserved rest.

 

But he knew how quickly gossip spread through the fort and Solas would prefer- Solas _deserved_ to hear about Dorian’s past from Dorian. So he sighed and forced himself to trudge tiredly up to Solas’ room. He wasn’t the least bit surprised that Solas had managed to beat him up there. He stood near the bed, struggling out of his sodden clothing.

 

Dorian shut the door behind him and stood long enough to form a small puddle.

 

“I’m very tired.” Solas murmured finally and Dorian sighed.

 

“I didn’t come up here for sex. I…there’s something I should tell you.”

 

“How ominous.”

 

“Nothing like that,” Dorian assured him. “I said something foolish to the Andrastians and I’d rather you heard it from me than one of our inexhaustible sources of gossip.”

 

He wondered if he should sit down, but then he’d only end up getting the bed wet as well. Perhaps he should follow Solas’ example and strip off but it seemed inappropriate to the conversation. He settled for leaning against the wall.

 

“You’ve probably worked it out already. You recall that I said my father attempted to change me?”

 

Solas nodded and Dorian told him everything. The ritual, the way his father had planned it, how Dorian had found out and the mad scramble of days when he had to _get out_.

 

Solas listened silently until Dorian ran out of steam. There was a pause long enough for Dorian to wonder whether he’d finally managed to ruin everything.

 

“I’d like you to stay tonight.” Solas said finally.

 

“I thought you just said-”

 

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

 

Dorian shifted and found he’d left a damp patch on the wall. Solas wasn’t looking at him. He’d gone back to methodically removing every dripping article of clothing, letting them pile on the floor. After a while Dorian did the same.

 

Dorian climbed into bed feeling fragile and Solas wrapped his arms around Dorian, buried his face into Dorian’s neck. But he didn’t say anything. And it was ridiculous because clearly he wasn’t about to kick Dorian out when he’d wound around him but as the silence stretched Dorian couldn’t quite shake the feeling-

 

“Say something?” Dorian asked finally.

 

“I don’t understand your father.”

 

“What’s to understand?” Dorian wondered. “He did his duty to his family and he wanted me to do mine.”

 

“To the detriment of your health and happiness.”

 

“The Pavus legacy is _far_ more important to him than my happiness.” Dorian muttered bitterly.

 

Solas squeezed him tighter.

 

“You didn’t work it out.” Dorian guessed. “What did you think I meant when I said he had tried to change me?”

 

He felt Solas shrug.

 

“Mundane cruelties. Isolation, censure, social pressure. Perhaps beatings. I didn’t consider-”

 

He trailed off.

 

“Why not?” Dorian prompted.

 

“Because I’ve raised children, vhenan.” Solas said softly. “And I can’t imagine wanting to kill them for such a trivial thing.”

 

“He wasn’t trying to kill me, Solas.”

 

“And yet he would have.”

 

They lapsed into silence. Eventually Dorian fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on fruits: A lot of the fruits currently cultivated in Ethiopia are originally from the Americas, avocado, papaya etc. So I mostly guessed what would grow in the Weisshaupt area based on drier southern Mediterranean areas and what is actually grown commercially in Ethiopia, chiefly citrus fruits and bananas. 
> 
> Someone on the meme I originally posted this to pointed out that chocolate is canon in Thedas. However: it’s mentioned in a conversation between Iron Bull and Varric with the context of Varric finally having managed to smuggle some down to Skyhold and clearly having no idea what the hell it is. So- the Qunari have new world plants. I sort of think that’s more evidence in favour of the Anderfels not having them.
> 
> Relevant Tevene  
> Somnoborium- Vessels of Dreams, orbs created by the elves that store power. Used in the worship of the Elvhen pantheon. At least…if you’re in Arlathan.
> 
> Relevant Elvhen  
> Vhenan- Heart, a common endearment


	22. In which Dorian receives some advice

The rain didn’t stop. The sky settled on a stubborn grey, the roads at the foot of Weisshaupt’s mountain turned to mud and the outer walls took on a greenish sheen as lichens and mosses tried to conquer the rock.

 

It didn’t stop the patrols and transports, the sort of thing Aclassi’s little band had done through belg before they’d called the kiremt rains. But the weather had made most normal forms of transport a hundred times more difficult. The groups that took to the roads twisted their bodies, patrolling their territory as vultures and eagles in the air, becoming brontos or nuggalopes and hauling the wagons themselves or loping alongside them as hyenas and wolves.

 

It was a form of magic that still made Dorian uncomfortable. He’d made no attempt to learn, much less master it. It seemed to ask the practitioner throw some essential part of themselves away and it didn’t matter that he _knew_ every mage in Weisshaupt did it and returned to their own shape wholly themselves, the thought still made his skin crawl.

 

He felt more guilty that his decision had trapped the rest of Aclassi’s band within the fort for the duration of the season.

 

He’d mentioned it, briefly, to Jarvia and she’d dismissed the notion out of hand.

 

“Don’t worry about it Vint, happens every year.”

 

It left him at something of a loose end. He was, periodically, translating resolutely Andrastian texts for Fenris and he did occasionally assist Dagna when her work seemed less likely to scatter their psyches across the Fade but-

 

“There’s _nothing_ to do.” Dorian complained, to Adaar because mentioning it to Solas would probably have resulted in a _list_ of ways Dorian could better spend his time.

 

Adaar just gave one of his rolling shrugs.

 

“Technically, you’re still helping me learn Tevene.” He pointed out and ducked when Dorian sent a shower of stinging sparks at his ear.

 

-

 

“How long is it going to rain?”

 

“Three and a half months.” Solas replied.

 

“Three- You _are_ joking.” Dorian accused.

 

“Depending on the amount of rifts and the wind it may last four.” Solas allowed.

 

“It’s going to be like this for _four months_?” Dorian asked incredulously. “How- No wait don’t answer that, it’s the _Anderfels_ of course it’s going to spend four months trying to wash us all off the mountain. In fact I should have expected it. Why be content with roasting people for most of the year and periodically dropping demons on their heads when you can try to drown them as well?”

 

“Dorian the climate does not exist to spite you personally.” Solas assured him.

 

He looked as though he was trying very hard not to smile. The bastard.

 

-

 

The monotonous tyranny of the weather was broken somewhat by an arrival from Orlais. She seemed perfectly ordinary to Dorian, for an Ander measure of ‘ordinary’ anyway. A human mage, with a young child, both slightly ragged and too pale to be born Ander. He supposed she was pretty, the way a dagger could be pretty, but not remarkably so.

 

Which made the stir she caused in the fortress baffling.

 

And _fascinating_.

 

At least up until he realised she was in Weisshaupt because she _knew_ Fen’Harel personally.

 

Dorian was certainly _not_ jealous. Not of the easy way she spoke Elvhen or the relaxed way she addressed Solas or the way she sometimes made him smile.

 

Anyway it would have been the height of hypocrisy for Dorian to be…irritated at the idea of Solas’ past lovers.

 

So he wasn’t. At all.

 

He was just…curious.

 

Of course when he started asking about her he found that half the fort had a story or a rumour, most of which helpfully contradicted each other.  

 

Her name was Morrigan and in the fort they called her Zahakanti, which was another bit of bastardised Elvhen Dorian couldn’t quite decipher. Something to do with beauty he suspected. He’d asked Leliana but instead of answering his perfectly reasonable question she’d given him a look and recounted some ridiculous fable about trust-

 

Jarvia didn’t seem to know anything, although she had a wealth of opinions. Heavily coloured by the way the upper classes in Orzammar kept multiple mistresses as a matter of course. Which gave her an…unusual view of the situation. Dorian had a limited ability to stomach her ‘advice’.

 

Fenris quickly declared Morrigan an abomination and a dozen other less repeatable things.

 

Dagna thought she had interesting ideas about magic and the compassion of an irate dracolisk.

 

Of course if previous experience was any indication all of this questioning was just a terribly drawn out way for Dorian to gather the courage to actually ask Solas. And it was ridiculous to be worried when every time he’d approached a problem with a modicum of sense the response had been positive. And he didn’t believe Solas would keep another lover on the side, certainly not so brazenly. The worst it could possibly be was a past affair, Dorian knew, and probably not a serious one but-

 

“You don’t need to worry.”

 

Dorian turned, frowning, and there was Morrigan’s boy all wild hair and wide eyes.

 

“Hello?” Dorian replied and try as he might he couldn’t quite focus on the child. “I didn’t hear you come in. You’re-”

 

He trailed off and shook his head. When he looked back up his eyes seemed to slide over the boy’s face and-

 

“Kieran.” He stated. “My mother calls me Kieran. You shouldn’t worry, you _mustn’t_ worry.”

 

“About what?” Dorian enquired.

 

“You think he sees her the way he sees you. He doesn’t.” The boy, Kieran, smiled and when he opened his mouth again his voice came out sounding like…Solas. “‘What have you done now da’len? Little child. Little flower. Little runaway. Thorn-in-your-mother’s-side.’”

 

Dorian wondered how by the Gods Kieran did that and was about to ask when the boy spoke again.

 

“Covered in mud, escaping Arlathan for the Anderfels, screaming blasphemy. That’s how he sees her. He gave you his heart, painful but it’s eased now, wistful, waiting for you to say what he can see, wondering if he’s right. He is.”

 

Dorian hadn’t the faintest idea how to respond. And he couldn’t have glanced away for more than a moment but when he looked back the boy was gone.

 

-

 

“I had an interesting encounter today.”

 

“Did you.” Solas murmured, it was quite possible he was half asleep already.

 

“Yes. I met Kieran.”

 

Solas fidgeted in his arms and Dorian resisted the urge to hold him tighter so he’d lie still.

 

“What did he say?” Solas asked finally.

 

“In short? That I was a fool for assuming Morrigan was ever your lover.”

 

There was a rather lengthy pause.

 

“Solas?” Dorian prompted when he didn’t seem inclined to reply.

 

“I’m not sure how to- we met when she was a child.”

 

“So I gathered. Kindly stop making that face.”

 

“I am not making a face.” Solas grumbled.

 

“Yes you are.”

 

“You can’t possibly see it.”

 

“Which is not the point.” Dorian said simply. “Stop it.”

 

Solas sighed and Dorian wondered whether he should mention the rest of what Kieran had said. If nothing else Solas might be able to make sense of it. Of course the more pressing question was-

 

“What are they?”

 

Solas sighed again. “They’re my friends. Anything more than that is not my secret to tell.”

 

“I see.” Dorian hesitated before adding. “Kieran mentioned that she was from Arlathan. Was she a slave?”

 

“I realise this might seem drastic but you could always _ask_ Lady Morrigan-”

 

“I could,” Dorian allowed. “But I’d much rather go through life with all my organs where they ought to be.”

 

He still couldn’t see Solas’ face so there was no real way to know for sure, but Dorian thought he was smiling.

 

“Morrigan’s mother is part of the Elvhen elite. If her father had been of the People she would have a title and might have found her situation in Arlathan more bearable. She left. Repeatedly. Eventually she found a way to stop her mother tracking her. She was in Ferelden during the Blight and fought with the Wardens. I believe one of them was Kieran’s father. Does that satisfy you?”

 

“Not really.” Dorian admitted. “In fact I think it raises more questions. That boy is-”

 

“Dorian, he means no harm. All he wants from life is to help others.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Solas shrugged. “Did he help you?”

 

-

 

They stayed for perhaps a week. Dorian didn’t see Kieran again and wasn’t sure whether to be thankful for that or disappointed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more truths about the state of his heart, or Solas’ and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to resist the temptation to pry.

 

The day they left Dorian found a little wooden duck on his bed. Even though he’d never told anyone-

 

Because really it was ridiculous and it had been such a long time ago and-

 

He picked it up. The grain of the wood was smooth and the Gods alone knew where Kieran had found it and-

 

He knew he _should_ find out who Kieran had taken it from and return it. Or at least make an attempt.

 

He put it in the drawer beside his bed, with the failed pigments he’d tried to make for Solas and the two remaining buttons from his long dead uniform.

 

-

 

They were driving a caravan through Minrathous and the bronto kept getting stuck in the narrower streets. Jarvia and Felix were arguing in the back so Dorian showed them the duck. Except it wasn’t the duck Kieran had left it was _the_ duck with its beautiful little red wheels.

 

Jarvia held it and spun the wheels while Fenris leant over and told them all it was obviously a goose not a duck and-

 

A cry, long and low and impossibly loud shattered the dream, made the Fade quake around him.

 

Dorian sat bolt upright in bed, the echo of the howl still ringing in his ears. He was breathing hard. It was pitch black but he could hear the rain outside. It was Solas’ room, Solas’ bed, he wasn’t wearing anything-

 

Solas was already up and across the room, half-dressed.

 

“What-” Dorian began blearily.

 

“Rifts to the north.” Solas said simply and then he shrugged his jacket on and headed towards the window and Dorian’s brain finally caught up.

 

“Wait!” He called and Solas did.

 

Dorian stumbled out of bed, grabbing a handful of clothes and he had very little idea what he was doing but-

 

“Dorian-”

 

“If you could just give me a moment-”

 

“Dorian you can’t shapeshift-”

 

“Surely you can-”

 

“ _No_.” Solas said so forcefully it brought Dorian up short.

 

Solas took advantage of his hesitation, taking Dorian’s face in his hands and kissing him, fast and desperate.

 

“Stay here.” Solas ordered and Dorian protested, stepped after him-

 

But Solas walked out of the window into the empty air as if it was a street. His eyes glowed green and the world twisted around him. The wings that caught him seemed large enough to bridge the fort. He beat them once and the wind they created nearly knocked Dorian flat.

 

He struggled to the window, for once not caring who might see and-

 

The Dread Wolf rose into the air, a sleek, black dragon, almost invisible against the dark sky and the rain.

 

He beat his wings twice more and was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Elvhen  
> Da’len- Literally ‘little child’, a respectful term for someone younger. I’m using it to show closer relationships/kinship.
> 
> From Hindi or Sanskrit  
> Zahar- Poison, Hindi  
> Kanti- An Indian girl’s name meaning ‘beauty’ (Sanskrit). Also an alternate name for the Goddess Lakshmi  
> Zahakanti- Beautiful poison, I was thinking of deathroot when I constructed this because deathroot flowers make me think of Morrigan. They’d make a good emblem for her I think. Which I referenced earlier with one of Solas’ random paintings. Cos that’s apparently how I roll.


	23. In which there are painful truths

For the first hour Dorian managed to remain relatively calm. This sort of thing wasn’t a rare occurrence in the Anderfels and Solas…Solas was powerful. Solas would be fine. Of course he would.

 

By the third hour that seemed less sure.

 

Although obviously it would take time for them to actually get to the affected area. Solas had carefully neglected to mention where exactly it was. It would take time for them to get there and it would take time for them to get back again. Obviously.

 

There was nothing to worry about.

 

By the sixth hour he was less convinced.

 

He stood out on the battlements watching the sky for an hour or so before he realised he’d hardly be able to see anything through the rain. So he squelched inside, dried off, changed.

 

And waited.

 

And waited.

 

The first of their troops started trickling back after ten hours but Solas wasn’t among them.

 

They- some of them seemed to think Fen’Harel had been injured but no one had actually seen anything and-

 

He ended up shutting himself in Solas’ room pacing over the same piece of floor. He tried not to think.

 

-

 

It was dark again when Solas returned. The rain had eased but he still faded into the grey sky. It was the sound of wings that made Dorian go out to the window and look. He had to scramble back almost straight away to give Solas room to land.

 

He fell into a heap just past the edge, in his own ragged shape, and struggled slowly to his feet. And it was dark, he was wet, it was difficult to distinguish the details but-

 

“You’re bleeding.”

 

“Yes.” Solas murmured even though Dorian was already beside him and close enough to see.

 

“Gods. Sit down, let me-”

 

“Dorian, it’s-”

 

“If you try to tell me this is _fine_ then so help me I’ll-”

 

He trailed off, failing to think of a suitable threat. Solas stared at him and waited.

 

“Just. Don’t.” Dorian finished, it sounded stupid and weak and-

 

Solas reached up, took his hand and squeezed. He gave Dorian one of his small, soft, smiles and it _hurt_.

 

“Don’t-” Dorian choked.

 

“This is far from the worst-”

 

“ _Don’t_. Don’t you _dare_ tell me that this is _nothing_ or that it’s _normal._ Because _it’s not_! And I _know_ that this country is dangerous, _venhedis_ I have noticed! And I also _know_ that you’re perfectly capable of defending yourself that is _not the point_! _Gods,_ amatus, you could have died! I’ve spent the last six hours wondering if you had!”

 

He stopped, closed his eyes, drew a long breath and let it out slowly. When he opened his eyes Solas was smiling, blissful and radiant despite the blood. It made Dorian want to burn something.

 

“ _What?”_ He demanded.

 

“Amatus.” Solas murmured.

 

“I-what?”

 

“You called me ‘amatus’.” Solas clarified, still smiling. “I like it.”

 

“I-” Dorian began but he couldn’t say he didn’t mean it. “This isn’t-”

 

Solas pushed himself off the wall with little more than a wince. He made his way to the bed too slowly and sat too heavily. He gestured for Dorian to sit beside him. After a moment’s hesitation Dorian did.

 

“I know what you’re going to say.” Dorian sighed. “Your people needed you. It was your duty. You couldn’t abandon- and I _know_ but-”

 

“The last time I had this conversation was almost three Ages ago.”

 

He said it so calmly. It made Dorian lose his thread entirely.

 

“She called herself Shokrakar; they don’t have names under the Qun. She was one of the first Kossith to remain in Weisshaupt.”

 

Solas paused, staring at the wall. Dorian couldn’t quite bring himself to look away.

 

“She’d been a baker. She used to knead extra sugar into the dough for the simple joy of not following someone else’s plan. A small act of rebellion but for a long time it was the only one open to her. They took her to Seheron and then Sundarin. She walked south, across the desert until she reached the river. She- she had a daughter, we named her Ashalle but the name she earned was Adaar-”

 

He trailed off, looking down at his hands. His mouth was twisted up in a small bitter smirk. And Dorian wanted to reach out, bridge the gap between them and hold him close. But it didn’t seem right when-

 

Solas shook his head. “She worried too. Shokrakar. Not just that I would die, but that the Qun might triumph and we’d end our days mindless in their chains. She would sit- there- and wait for me. Sometimes for days-”

 

“Why are you telling me this?” Dorian asked softly and the sad, wistful expression Solas had worn vanished under something pained.

 

“Because you are not wrong and neither was she. The next crisis might well kill me. And the Anderfels has never had a shortage of disasters, but-” He shut his eyes and sighed. “One night she found a knot in her left breast. The size of a pea. In three months it was the size of a walnut. By the end of the year it was as big as my fist. I healed her and it did little but buy her a few more days at a time. Eventually she asked me to stop.”

 

He stared blankly at the floor and then the wall. Fingers twisted together.

 

“I buried her and seventeen years later I buried our daughter.” Solas took a deep breath and turned finally to look at Dorian. “You are not wrong ma vhenan. But it is much much more likely that I will see you die, one way or another, than the reverse.”

 

Dorian held Solas’ gaze until he couldn’t bear it anymore. He scrubbed his hands over his eyes. He couldn’t- He didn’t- Gods but he didn’t want to think about that, about the hundred ways he might die, quick or slow, with Solas _watching_ -

 

“Are you- are you telling me you haven’t had a lover for three hundred years?” Dorian said, because it was easier.

 

Solas smiled. “No. Elves tend to require a different conversation. They- sometimes they think I’m invulnerable, omnipotent, with them I need to explain that I _can_ be hurt.”

 

“That sounds…frustrating.”

 

Solas shrugged and before he could stop himself Dorian was imagining what it would be like to become _used_ to-

 

“By the Gods, how do you live like this?”

 

“The same way that you live knowing you have only decades. The same way a dwarf lives without ever knowing the Fade. Because we must. There is no choice.”

 

Dorian resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands again. And it was ridiculously really because he’d known it all. He _knew_ what the Dread Wolf was, he knew that Solas must have outlived- He’d even known Solas had raised children. None of it was new so he shouldn’t-

 

“The bleeding’s stopped.” Solas told him softly.

 

Dorian sighed.

 

And finally pulled him close.

 

-

 

For the first time in a long while Dorian woke alone.

 

He got up, stretched and found the rain seemed lighter this morning. Of course the roads wouldn’t have dried out enough to allow proper travel again. But perhaps-

 

He paused. A whisp of veilfire flickered green against the drawers on Solas’ side of the bed. Dorian touched it and it mapped a path deep into the fortress in his mind, coming out in a large square room with painted walls.

 

An invitation.

 

Dorian glanced over to the window and yes it was still raining and he had meant to help Dagna with that damned-by-all-the-Gods… _thing_ she’d cobbled together but since the last time had almost burnt his mustachio off she could damned well manage by herself.

 

-

 

Solas’ gallery was high up in the body of the fort. Paintings spilled out of it over the walls of the hallways and, Dorian suspected, into the surrounding rooms. He thought briefly of the design in front of Adaar’s door then headed inside.

 

Solas was in the middle of a knot of scaffolding, halfway up a wall.

 

“Good morning.” Dorian called and Solas returned the greeting without looking away from his work.

 

Dorian turned slowly, taking in the mural that worked itself in a spiral up around the room. There was a Vashoth woman near the bottom, silhouetted by smoke and flame. The curls of colour turned into waves behind her and dreadnoughts breaking against the surf. He stepped closer, ran a finger just above the line the trowel must have taken and wondered if she was the first Adaar.

 

“Are you going to say anything?” Dorian asked.

 

“I was waiting for you to speak.”

 

Dorian smirked. “Very well. Are there any other interesting past lovers I should know about? Purely to avoid offending their descendants you understand.”

 

“You’re a terrible liar, Dorian Pavus.”

 

“You gave me leave to pry.”

 

“I married the woman who first united the Orth tribes against the Blight. Her tribe count us as kin. They’re fairly easy to recognise, the scars are like horns over the cheekbones with a single straight line down the forehead.”

 

Strange that the most bizarre part of that was the image of an Orth wedding ceremony. Dorian tried to imagine what it might be like and drew a complete blank. There’d be blood and demons, probably.

 

“You married an Orth?”

 

“I was her third husband.”

 

 _That_ made Dorian look away from the mural. He opened his mouth, thought better of what he would have said and closed it. He couldn’t see that far up but he was certain Solas was smirking.

 

“To clarify, was this while the Orth practiced polygamy or after they’d adopted a modicum of civilisation?”

 

“The former.”

 

Dorian chuckled, he couldn’t help himself it seemed…absurd.

 

“I’m not sure I can imagine that.”

 

“I’m not sure I want you too. You’ll find some way to make it seem crude.”

 

“In my defence that wouldn’t take too much imagination.” Dorian countered, he couldn’t quite suppress his grin. “How many husbands did she have?”

 

“Seven.”

 

“ _Seven?!_ ”

 

“Dorian-”

 

“That’s quite excessive. She must have had impressive stamina to-”

 

“ _Dorian-”_

 

“Yes, yes, very well. I’ll keep my terrible deviant ideas to myself and let you keep your dignity.” Dorian promised.

 

“Ma serannas.” Solas replied.

 

“But _seven-_ ”

 

“Dorian-”

 

“Yes, yes. Ma nuvenin.”

 

They drifted into a comfortable silence, Solas painting and Dorian examining his previous work. He thought it depicted events but it was difficult to be certain. The style was definitely Elvhen and as a result the symbolism could be hard to follow. The wolves were likely the people of the fort, the griffins would be the Wardens and the nuggalopes might have been Kal-Sharok. He thought he could pick out highlights, starting at the Qunari invasion three hundred years ago and winding through to the unrest in Kirkwall that was fracturing the Andrastian Chantries outside.

 

He stopped, staring at what could only be a Rift, a dragon’s shadow in its centre. Dorian took a deep breath.

 

“I never asked but- what exactly did you do?”

 

Solas paused and followed Dorian’s gaze to the Archdemon ready to burst from the Rift.

 

“After all this time I assumed you’d come to your own conclusions. Or asked someone else.”

 

Dorian shrugged. He knew a version or course, that Fen’Harel had fought the Elvhen gods and shattered the Empire. In some versions he sent the Blight although that wasn’t a Tevene story.

 

“I suppose I’d prefer to hear it from you.”

 

Solas sighed and put his palette down, the trowel neatly placed on top.

 

“I created the Veil.”

 

Dorian considered that for a moment.

 

“Why?”

 

“The magic the evanuris used to subjugate the people depended on the presence of the Fade. By separating our realms the people could be freed from their influence and choose their own path. But much of our Empire was built on the assumption the Fade would be present. I knew that…there would be deaths, that we would lose a great deal. And I judged it a fair price to ensure the people would be free.”

 

“It made them mortal?”

 

“Yes. I didn’t realise it would do that at the time.”

 

Dorian turned, following the path of the mural over twisted possessed weeds and shambling corpses and Wardens with green marks flaring on their hands.

 

“You must have known the Blights were…a possible side effect.” Dorian said carefully.

 

“If the ritual had proceeded correctly they wouldn’t have been.”

 

“But something went wrong?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He didn’t elaborate. Dorian gave him as long as he could bear.

 

“What happened?”

 

Solas sighed. “Mythal was the best of the evanuris. If they hadn’t attempted to kill her I don’t believe I ever would have tried to- But they did. And I believed Mythal dead. And without her as mediator I knew the world would descend into war. Unending war. The people enslaved for eternity their lives spent at the whim of arrogant, bloodthirsty, fools, willing to treat other people’s lives as…pieces in a game. Can you imagine that kind of conflict, vhenan? Can you imagine living forever with the knowledge that someone else could control your every act if they wished? What I did was desperate. It was foolish. But-”

 

“Solas,” Dorian interrupted gently. “You haven’t answered my question.”

 

“Mythal. She was not dead and she guessed what I was doing and she-” Solas trailed off with a gesture Dorian couldn’t quite interpret.

 

“The ritual was disturbed. The Veil did not form as it should.” Solas continued after a moment. “In some places it is thin, ragged and rift-filled as it is here. Some places it doesn’t cover at all.”

 

“The Empire’s land.” Dorian guessed. “It was meant to trap the gods, so they can’t leave it.”

 

“Precisely.” He sighed again. “They exiled us here as the nature of the Veil makes it…inhospitable. But a true Blight requires a spirit strong enough to force a path through, whether it wills it or not-”

 

“Like a cloth tearing under a weight.” Dorian murmured. “And then they do what demons do and possess-”

 

“And then they make themselves a body, twisted by their pain and forced passage into this world.” Solas corrected. “And that pain warps not only them but any weaker spirits that are dragged through. It poisons them. It hurts them. And hence-”

 

“The Blight.”

 

Solas nodded.

 

“How do you stand it?” Dorian wondered.

 

“For a long time I did not. Now- Now I do what I can to help those that suffer. On both sides of the Veil. For a time I wanted to remove it but doing so would return the evanuris to power. And it would wipe away much of what has grown in the meantime. Human, Dwarven and Kossith. At first I didn’t think that would matter, I didn’t value them anymore than bright weeds growing on a refuse heap. A very _evanuris_ way of regarding the world. I am glad I lacked the means to do it then. I wouldn’t want any more suffering for my mistakes.”

 

The silence stretched out with Dorian looking from the mural to Solas and back again. Three Ages of lived history on the walls and more outside, spiralling back to a time before the Imperium, into the murky history of the Elvhen Empire-

 

It was hard enough to conceive the sheer amount of time- Harder to think of the man who curled around him in the dark as capable of that kind of destruction. As the kind who’d think carefully on how many deaths his actions were likely to cause and judge the numbers acceptable. But then-

 

It was the common cost of leadership. Weighing the deaths you caused against those you prevented. Dorian thought of Arlathan, the temple, the tap of the tattooist’s implement into his face.

 

It wasn’t a great stretch to think of it binding a man, like a spirit, to obedience. Twisting them until they met their master’s needs.

 

The memory of Qunari invaders was still strong in the Imperium, the loss of Seheron still sore. And yet there were a great many people who said they would rather die than suffer the Qun. A life as a poisoned, mindless drone or a life of masked, mute, blindness.

 

He tried to imagine what it would be like for an eternity.

 

Dorian sighed. “Amatus, you are the noblest idiot I have ever met.”

 

“Is that an insult or a compliment?” Solas asked.

 

“Both. Now how by the Gods did you get up there and how can I join you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Tevene  
> Venhedis- Another untranslated swearword  
> Amatus- My love. Masculine form.
> 
> Relevant Qunlat  
> Shokrakar- Rebel  
> Adaar- A cannon. Honestly.
> 
> Relevant Elvhen  
> Vhenan- Heart, a common endearment.  
> Ma serannas- Literally ‘my thanks’. Thank you.  
> Ma nuvenin- As you say  
> Evanuris- Leaders, apparently what the Elvhen called their Gods


	24. In which home is built on shifting sands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me.

It was strange, looking back, the things he didn’t notice. Dorian couldn’t have said _when_ exactly he’d picked up the little pieces of Elvhen the people of the fort peppered their speech with. When words like ‘len’alas’ and ‘falon’, ‘da’len’ and ‘hahren’ started slipping easily in between ordinary Common.

 

He wasn’t sure when Ander stopped being a struggle or when he’d started speaking it with confidence rather than hesitancy. When he’d stopped attracting stares and when he’d started responding to ‘Telahi’.

 

He wasn’t sure when Weisshaupt became…home.

 

But he became aware of it, all of it, the morning the rains stopped.

 

-

 

He’d woken up first, as he usually did. The room was bright and the sunlight had made it all slightly yellowed, promising real down-to-the-bones warmth for the first time in…Gods had it really been that long?

 

Dorian got up.

 

He pulled yesterday’s clothes from where he’d left them on the floor, which on reflection was a rather stupid habit when he had clothes in Solas’ drawers. Somewhere.

 

He put on his trousers and padded softly to the window.

 

It was early but there was still movement in the fort. A small band swooping over the walls, bird-shaped. A handful of people in the courtyard by the gates. Someone on the level opposite slinging a jacket over their windowsill to dry in the sun.

 

He heard Solas stir behind him and smiled. Turned in time to see Solas reach bearily for Dorian’s side of the bed-

 

“Over here.”

 

He turned his attention back to the view. There were still some clouds scattered through the sky but they’d worn thinner and the early light had turned their undersides peach.

 

Solas wandered up behind him and paused. His hands settled, gentle and cautious, just below Dorian’s ribs. They moved slowly up Dorian’s chest drawing him backwards into an embrace. Dorian stepped into it.

 

“What were you thinking about?” Solas enquired.

 

“How quickly this has become ordinary.” Dorian replied. “It’s bizarre really. Less than a year ago all of this was entirely outside my experience. Now it’s normal.”

 

He twisted slightly in Solas’ arms, trying to get a glimpse of his face.

 

“Do you ever feel similarly?”

 

“Less often than I used to.”

 

“And you?” Dorian asked. “What were you thinking?”

 

“That it’s too early to be out of bed.” Solas answered solemnly and Dorian laughed.

 

-

 

The sunlight lasted through the day. By midmorning Dorian had elected to hide from it in Dagna’s workshop.

 

Not that it was much cooler in there because Dagna _had_ to have chosen the end of the rains to start experimenting with glassblowing-

 

They discussed appropriate uses of lyrium and the limitations of enchantments in between shaping potion bottles. Somehow the conversation had turned to golems and Dagna had actually _met_ one.

 

She was most of the way through telling Dorian about ‘Shale’ when Leske burst in like there were demons at his heels.

 

“Telahi!” He called, out of breath. “Stone we’ve been looking _all over_ for you, why d’you bury yourself down here?”

 

“We are rather in the middle of something.” Dorian interrupted, since he _was_ controlling the temperature of the glass and it was rather precise work thank you very much-

 

“They caught some Vints out east.” Leske said seriously. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

 

-

 

He caught pieces of the story as they shouldered their way through the fort. Some of it seemed fanciful but there were certain details that came up again and again.

 

A band of armed Tevinters, including mages, neither mercenary nor military. And they’d been looking for _Dorian Pavus_ -

 

He kept overhearing slurs, _Vint_ and _slavers_ and worse-

 

Cremisius was waiting for them in one of the major doorways. He pulled them aside.

 

“They took most of ‘em to the dungeon but they had their leader up in front of the harhens for a while. He says-” Aclassi’s voice dropped to a hiss. “He says he’s looking for his _son_.”

 

Dorian felt cold.

 

“Where is he now?” Dorian asked, his voice steady and even despite the ground dropping out from under his world.

 

“Took him to a separate cell.” Aclassi replied. “The Dread Wolf asked if you could identify him.”

 

They didn’t know, not truly, and that meant that for a while at least Dorian could hope to the Gods that it _wasn’t_ his father. No matter that he couldn’t imagine another reason why a captured mage might invoke the Pavus name and if word of his…about him and Solas had somehow reached the boarder then Halward Pavus would almost certainly-

 

Perhaps (if the Gods were merciful) it was someone his father had sent. Someone Dorian wouldn’t have to mourn if they suffered a slaver’s fate.

 

Even if it had only come about because of him.

 

Dorian sighed.

 

“I suppose you’d better take me to them.”

 

-

 

The cell was down in the Dwarven part of the fort, cut down under the mountain and into the Stone. The tunnels were quiet, off the main throughfares in the opposite direction from the living quarters, close to the route towards Kal’Sharok.

 

The light was poorer than in the main tunnels, which was likely a deliberate decision on someone’s part to discomfort any prisoners-

 

In some ways it wasn’t dissimilar to Elgar’nan’s prison.

 

He tried not to think about that.

 

Leske had left them at top of the stairs and as they got close enough for Dorian to hear voices Aclassi stopped.

 

His hand clapped briefly on Dorian’s shoulder and then-

 

Dorian wasn’t even sure why he kept walking. It was his father’s voice, strained and desperate as Dorian had never heard it but it was his father’s voice.

 

He could wait. He could climb back to the surface and tell Solas later. He could leave the _venhedis, len’alas, bastard_ to rot, let the fort deal with him the same they would any other trespasser.

 

Dorian paused at the doorway and took a deep breath.

 

Inside his father was begging to see him. Saying that Dorian was his _son_. His only child and by the Gods were they so inhuman that they didn’t understand that?

 

_His son!_

 

Dorian stepped inside.

 

It was larger than the cell in Arlathan had been. It looked more comfortable, as far as these things went. There were no chains and an ordinary looking bed.

 

He tried not to look at his father, tried not to hear the hitch in his breath.

 

Banal’ras had planted herself on one side of the cell like an extension of the stone. Fenris had taken the other.

 

And in the middle was Solas, stern and implacable. The green glow rendered his eyes blank and they shone strangely against the sweep of black fur he’d hung over his plain grey tunic. The image of savage, fade-touched Fen’Harel.

 

He turned very slightly as Dorian came in.

 

In the cell Halward lurched forward, his son’s name on his lips.

 

Dorian stood beside Solas and endeavoured to give away just as little.

 

“Is this your father?” Solas asked, in Ander.

 

He looked at the man in the cell, tired, dirty and desperate but indisputably Magister Halward Pavus. Gods it was a struggle to keep his face blank-

 

“Unfortunately it is.”

 

He waited but Solas didn’t react in any obvious way.

 

“What happened?” Dorian prompted.

 

“Vaira’s band found them in the foothills to the south east. I suspect they set out at the wrong time of year and got lost during the rains. His servants said they’d encountered rifts. I imagine they lost a number of people.”

 

“I see.”

 

In the lull his father said “Dorian” again. Said it like a plea.

 

“You may speak to him if you wish.” Solas murmured.

 

“Ma serannas.” Dorian replied and perhaps it was his casual use of Elvhen but something hardened in his father.

 

“ **Let him** **go**!” Halward demanded in Common, hands curled to fists around the bars and his focus on Solas.

 

Dorian winced but Solas-

 

Solas turned to face Magister Pavus.

 

“Your son is not a prisoner.” He stated in calm even Common. “He is here because he chose to be.”

 

“Liar!” Magister Pavus snarled and Dorian-

 

Dorian took a deep breath and stepped between them.

 

“I would…appreciate it,” Dorian began, still in Ander and Gods he hoped his father hadn’t tried to learn any- “If you don’t fight about this in front of me.”

 

“Ma nuvenin.” Solas replied. “You do not _have_ to speak to him if you do not want to.”

 

“No I- I-” Dorian sighed. “I should.”

 

Solas nodded once. And then he left.

 

-

 

“Dorian?” Halward said and this time it was easier to ignore.

 

After a moment Banal’ras stepped forward.

 

“Try not to kill him.” She advised in a whisper.

 

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

 

She brushed past him and out into the corridor. Dorian turned to Fenris.

 

“I will not leave you alone together, mage.”

 

“You can’t possibly think I’m going to- Of course you do.” Dorian sighed. “T’la I am not going to help him escape.”

 

“Perhaps not.” Fenris stated. “But that isn’t the only reason I chose to stay.”

 

Gods he was too tired to have this fight as well. So Dorian nodded and Fenris stepped back. Leaving him to stare at his father.

 

“Have you nothing to say?” Halward asked, in Tevene and Gods it had been so long since he’d heard that tongue.

 

“I’m having trouble knowing where to start.” Dorian admitted and he noticed that his accent had changed-

 

“Why did you come here?” Dorian asked.

 

“You’re _my son_.” Halward said as if it was an answer and from another man it might have been but-

 

“As I recall you said I was no son of yours-”

 

“ _Dorian_ ,” Gods the tone was almost reproach- “Whatever our…disagreements I would _never_ leave you at the mercy of these-”

 

“Savages?” Dorian suggested. “They’ve actually been incredibly accommodating. And remarkably civilised so long as one ignores their attitude to wine. As you can see I’m hardly ‘at their mercy’.”

 

“Whatever they have threatened you with, whatever they-” His father’s voice cracked and try as he might Dorian couldn’t feel glad for it. “Whatever they have done, Dorian I promise you-”

 

“You’re in no position to keep promises, father.” He sighed, glanced briefly at Fenris and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have come.”

 

“How could I _not_?!”

 

Dorian turned away so he wouldn’t have to see his father’s face. It didn’t make much difference; he could hear the despair, the hopelessness, the _betrayal_ in his tone.

 

“They asked for a ransom and then they _changed their minds_! They said you were _dead_ , but I- I knew they were lying. And I could not, I could _never_ , leave you to be _used_ by these-”

 

“I suggest you do not finish that sentence.”

 

Somewhat to Dorian’s surprise he didn’t.

 

“Do you know why they did that?” Dorian asked. “Told you I was alive and then changed their minds? They assumed I would want to go home. They didn’t ask. And I found the thought of it so unpleasant I went to the Dread Wolf and I _requested_ his permission to stay.”

 

“Dorian whatever they’ve done,” And Gods there was hope in his eyes, desperate and blind. “I promise-”

 

“What they’ve _done,_ father, is allowed me to live free of the threat of a _blood magic ritual changing who I am_! What they’ve _done_ , is welcome me into a society where I do not have to _hide_!”

 

He stopped. Stepped back away from the cell took a moment to slow his breathing and uncurl his fingers. He considered, briefly, bitterly, telling his father about Solas just to see the look on his face. But all the man would hear was that his precious son had been corrupted. All Halward would see would be coercion, threat and force and-

 

All the things Solas had gone out of his way to avoid.

 

He considered telling Halward his new name. Pictured his face as Dorian explained what ‘Telahi’ meant: a false-dragon. An Ander under Tevinter skin.

 

He sighed.

 

“You shouldn’t have come here-”

 

“Dorian-”

 

“I shouldn’t have stayed to talk to you. Gods alone know what I thought _that_ could possibly accomplish-”

 

“Dorian I only wished-”

 

“That I was someone else.” Dorian finished. “I am aware.”

 

He turned away from the pained look in his father’s eyes and tried not to listen to what Halward called after him as he walked away.

 

-

 

The golden cast the sunlight gave Solas’ room didn’t seem nearly as cheering in the evening as it had in the morning. He’d let himself in and laid down, fully clothed on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

 

“What are you going to do with him?” Dorian asked softly when Solas finally came back.

 

Solas didn’t answer. He made his way towards the window and leaned against the wall, looking out.

 

“Solas?”

 

“I want to kill him.” Solas said simply.

 

“I-”

 

“You don’t want that.”

 

“No.” Dorian confirmed.

 

Solas sighed.

 

“Did you know he was coming here?” Dorian asked and Solas shook his head.

 

“I had heard that he left the family estate several months ago but our sources suggested he was going east to support these ridiculous skirmishes with Arlathan. Then on to the Rivain”

 

“I suppose he’d have preferred people to think that.”

 

They lapsed into silence. Dorian stared at the ceiling and Solas stared out into the courtyard.

 

“You haven’t answered my question.” Dorian murmured.

 

“He can’t remain imprisoned here.” Solas said softly. “Sooner or later the Magisterium will wonder what became of him and if he was last seen near our boarder that could well become another excuse for war.”

 

“Surely that applies if you execute him as well?”

 

“That depends how it’s done.”

 

Dorian closed his eyes.

 

He could _see_ it. Halward Pavus found frozen in the High Reaches or torn apart by animals in the desert. There would still be some who’d blame the Andermen and Fen’Harel but most of the Magisterium would think the old man claimed a fool’s reward, trekking into the desert after a corpse.

 

He wanted to ask Solas not to but…that was perhaps overstepping. Because it wasn’t right to ask that the Dread Wolf make one man an exception to the law.

 

Even if it was his _father_.

 

Hating him would have been easier but the man who locked him away like a prisoner was the same one who’d read to him when he was feverish.

 

“He’s my father.” Dorian murmured finally.

 

“I know.” Solas sighed. “We could modify his memories to an extent and release him-”

 

“But no one here would see that as justice.” Dorian finished. “Are there…no other options?”

 

“Handing him to Orlais or Nevarra has been suggested.” Solas said carefully. “I believe they would probably make him Tranquil.”

 

“Fasta vass.” Dorian winced. “I wish he hadn’t come- I don’t- I _know_ that he’s a threat, but he came here for me-”

 

Solas said nothing and after a while Dorian sighed.

 

“I don’t want him to die.”

 

Solas closed his eyes and something about the way he held himself made Dorian sure that-

 

“You’ve thought of something haven’t you?”

 

“I fear you won’t like it.”

 

“So you’re wasting time.” Dorian said bitterly. “Tell me. I don’t need unpleasant surprises from you as well.”

 

Solas pushed himself off the wall and wandered over to the bed. He sat crosslegged beside Dorian, not quite touching and picked at the sheets.

 

“How do you feel about the Imperium?” Solas asked finally.

 

“Do you always start your answers with questions?” Dorian responded, wearily. “The answer to that is quite complicated, as you should know.”

 

“Yes.” Solas said softly.

 

And he waited.

 

For a long stubborn stretch of time Dorian tried to outlast him. Which was a stupid, futile thing to do but-

 

But his father had wandered into his life and ruined it again, and he was angry.

 

Solas’ fingers brushed gently through his hair, ghosting over his scalp. Dorian sighed and relented.

 

“My homeland is a place of squandered potential. Corruption and injustice are endemic. I knew that years before we met. And the hypocrisy! So many small, stupid people utterly convinced that they’re better than everyone else in Thedas!”

 

He stopped. Solas’ fingers wound around some stray strands of hair and soothed them back into place.

 

“But?” Solas prompted.

 

Dorian sighed again. “We care, deeply, about everything. Despite appearances. We have no reserve, not in war and not in love. I- If I thought the Imperium was beyond hope I wouldn’t miss it.”

 

Solas’ hands paused in his hair.

 

“And the slaves?”

 

There was no emotion in his voice and yet-

 

“Gods if ever there was a leading question- The truth? I never questioned it when I was at home. I never thought about it until, well I suppose until I was captured. And I didn’t really consider it until I came here- Are you asking if I would free them? Is that what this is about?”

 

Solas’ expression didn’t change. “Would you?”

 

“I don’t know if I could.”

 

“Because of the cost?”

 

“Because I wouldn’t have the faintest idea _how_. Slaves are everywhere in the Imperium. Not even the Archon has the power to seize property across the country it would-” He rubbed his eyes and tried not to think of Fenris.

 

“I don’t see how it would be possible.” Dorian said finally. “Preferable but not…possible.”

 

“Hmmm.” Solas replied.

 

“You want me to go back. Don’t you?”

 

“No.” Solas told him. “From an entirely selfish perspective I’d like you to stay here. I’d like to teach you how to change your shape and see you fly. I’d like to show you Sundarin and Kassel and the Merdaine.”

 

“But?” Dorian prompted and then it was Solas’ turn to sigh.

 

“You are passionate, driven and intelligent. And you’re loyal-”

 

“Am I?”

 

“Vhenan you’re defending a man who did everything in his power to control you, to bind you-”

 

“He’s my father.” Dorian protested and Solas laid a finger across his lips.

 

“Let me finish?”

 

Dorian nodded.

 

“You’re an Altus.” Solas stated. “They’d accept you back without question. They wouldn’t even consider that you might have preferred it here. They’d find the notion absurd.”

 

Dorian closed his eyes. He could see it, the young, handsome smiling mage, captured by the savage Elves. It was exactly the sort of story they’d devour back home. And if the heroic mage escaped? If he came home whole and triumphant well then-

 

“You would be able to capitalise on their attention.” Solas said as if he could read Dorian’s mind. “You’d be able to make a name for yourself, secure a position of true power. You would be in a position to change your country.”

 

Dorian took a deep breath. “Are you asking me to leave?”

 

“I’m asking you to consider what you might accomplish if you did.”

 

“And very carefully not mentioning what might happen to my father if I don’t.”

 

“I’m sure we can think of something that doesn’t involve bloodshed. Whatever you decide.”

 

Gods it was too much-

 

“I can’t give you an answer now.” Dorian said and it was true but-

 

He opened his eyes to Solas’ smile and felt that…somehow they both already knew what he would choose.

 

Because a chance to change the Imperium, truly change it-

 

And he _could_. With a hero’s homecoming, House Pavus’ allies, the _Dread Wolf_ whispering advice in his dreams- It could be done.

 

And if he said no it would be for his own comfort. For the relative freedom of the Anderfels and the friendships he’d cultivated here. For this second, loving home and for the hundred small things he’d miss.

 

And for Solas.

 

If he said no he would not be able to think about the Imperium again guilt-free. Because he might have been able to make a difference. Gods alone knew what Solas would think-

 

Perhaps that shouldn’t have been a factor but he couldn’t help thinking that once Solas must have faced a choice not unlike this. And he had decided to change his country, decided to do everything in his power to make things better.

 

He’d chosen to become Fen’Harel.

 

Would he still respect Dorian if Dorian said no?

 

More importantly would Dorian still be able to respect himself-

 

Solas leaned down and kissed him, gentle and far too brief.

 

“Take your time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Elvhen  
> Len’alas- ‘Dirt children’, I’m taking this to mean ‘bastards’  
> Falon- Friend  
> Da’len- Literally ‘little child’, a respectful term for someone younger. I’m using it to show closer relationships/kinship.  
> Hahren- Elder  
> Tel- Negation, ie Tel’x ‘not x’  
> Ma serannas- Literally ‘my thanks’. Thank you.  
> Ma nuvenin- As you say  
> Vhenan- Heart, a common endearment.
> 
> From Hindi or Sanskrit  
> Ahi- Snake, serpent or dragon. (Sanskrit)  
> Telahi- Literally ‘not a dragon’
> 
> From Amharic  
> T’la- Ghost (primarily shade, shadow also apparently part of the word for inedible mushrooms, because languages are weird)


	25. In which hope leads down different paths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me this long, I hope you've all enjoyed the fic. Regardless of whether you did or not please let me know what you think and thank you for reading. 
> 
> I think this thing's the size of a small novel and it's my longest work to date.

Dorian walked along the walls and it didn’t help in the least. Gods if he could only calm himself and focus-

 

Of course if he’d _thought_ about the walls of the fort would have been the last place in the blasted Anderfels to go looking for peace. Two elves and a Vashoth pushed past him in a hurry, mages with less regard for their form kept flying inches from his head-

 

He’d thought perhaps the walk, the fresh air and view of the suddenly green plains would help him clear his head. Instead he was reminded that most Anders appeared to have Jarvia’s manners. He needed-

 

He needed another perspective.

 

He wanted to ask Solas.

 

But that was hardly going to help either of them, because Solas might well have talked him round to…well, anything and it needed to be his own decision. Gods alone knew if they’d forgive each other otherwise.

 

Dorian sighed, stepped out of the way for a pair of cursing humans and headed for Adaar’s door.

 

-

 

Adaar’s room seemed larger, emptier than Dorian remembered it. Much of the mess had vanished, both beds were neatly made and that disturbing stuffed varghest toy stared menacingly up from the centre of one of them.

 

“I take it your sister’s traveling?”

 

“Yeah.” Adaar agreed with a tired sigh. “Back to Hossberg again.”

 

“Why doesn’t she just join the Wardens?” Dorian wondered aloud.

 

Adaar gave one of his massive shrugs. “She wanted to and Hahren tried to talk her out of it, that’s why she ran up there the first time. Then Warden Commander Rainer said something about getting more experience and not throwing her life away and then she came back and she wasn’t all ‘honour, Justice, GRIFFINS’ anymore. Instead she was all ‘Commander Rainer says this’, ‘Commander Rainer thinks that’, ‘Commander Rainer has the _best_ beard!’”

 

Dorian chuckled. “And what does ‘Commander Rainer’ think about all this?”

 

“I dunno. That Wolves are insane?”

 

“I’m not sure he’s wrong.” Dorian muttered.

 

The conversation ground to a halt while Dorian fidgeted and failed to focus. Adaar stared at the floor. Apparently neither of them quite knew how to mention the impending disaster locked safely in Weisshaupt’s dungeon.

 

“I err- heard about your father.” Adaar tried eventually. “It means a lot where you’re from doesn’t it? Being someone’s father.”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

Adaar shrugged. “It’s not like that in Sundarin. Not special I mean. Most people are in little groups, like the bands I guess, and they raise you so they’re your family.”

 

Dorian nodded. At another time he’d probably have found that fascinating and pressed Adaar for details until he ran out of patience with the Vashoth’s tendency to skip over important details and understate everything. He felt too tired to think.

 

Adaar tilted his head to one side. “Are you alright?”

 

Dorian shook his head. He sat on the bed beside the varghest toy. Adaar sat opposite him.

 

“You want to talk about it?”

 

Dorian took a deep breath.

 

“I- He’s-” He sighed and began again. “I know what happens to slavers here, rather hard to avoid it especially if you spend any length of time near Fenris and I don’t want him to die, he’s my father, but I can’t just expect the fort to release him because of that and he _is_ dangerous and even if we did let him go he’d probably cause trouble and I don’t want anyone here to get hurt because of him. Because of me. He’s only here because of me-”

 

“You trust him?” Adaar asked and Dorian almost laughed.

 

“ _No_. Not at all.”

 

Adaar waited patiently and eventually Dorian felt he could go on.

 

“We can’t just let him go. I know that. I don’t want him harmed but I don’t want to see him harm anyone else either and Solas- Solas suggested something.”

 

Adaar snorted. “Yeah. Of course he did.”

 

It almost made Dorian smile. He stared down at his hands and picked at his fingernails.

 

“Do you have any idea how they see you? Weisshaupt? ‘Wolves’? Fen’Harel? They think you’re monsters. Savages, irredeemable, bloodthirsty warmongers ready to spill out and ravage the whole- well perhaps not the _whole_ of Thedas but certainly Tevinter-”

 

“They need to get out more.” Adaar said, unhelpfully.

 

“I- It was pointed out to me that a citizen of the Imperium, especially a mage, an Altus, returning from the Anderfels might be able to capitalise on that misconception.”

 

Dorian paused. He glanced at Adaar to see if he was following and Adaar gestured for him to carry on, so-

 

Dorian took a deep breath. “If I…went home I’d be a sensation. The _brave_ Altus soldier who fought against _nasty decadent_ Arlathan and then escaped from the _savage brutal_ Anders- it would be all anyone talked about for _years_.”

 

He sighed. “And my father would be a natural addition to the story. A courageous old man trying to find his only son who bit off rather more than he could chew and then _by shocking coincidence_ is rescued by his son. Do you see where this is going?”

 

“Yeah.” Adaar murmured. “I think I do.”

 

“It _is_ the simplest way to…help my father and the fort. Otherwise, so far as I can see, I risk harming one or the other. But- even putting aside the _many_ reasons I chose to stay here in the first place, I…like it here. I enjoy the company and, though I’m sure saying it would make my ancestors roll in their graves, I enjoy the life. On the other hand if by giving it up I can improve my homeland surely it would be selfish not to try?”

 

“That depends-”

 

“Does it?”

 

Adaar shrugged. “You really think you could make a difference? That’s one thing. D’you think you’d survive trying?”

 

Dorian’s mouth opened but before he could protest Adaar interrupted.

 

“I don’t mean ‘what if they find out you’re a spy’ that’s sort of obvious right? But you hated it there. If you go back and have to live like that again, is it gonna hurt? Wear you down inside?”

 

“I don’t know.” Dorian murmured. “I suspect- If I tried and failed I would find that preferable to never making the attempt.”

 

“OK.” Adaar stated.

 

“OK?” Dorian echoed.

 

“You sort of sound like you’ve already decided.”

 

Dorian started to protest but-

 

Well it was rather pointless.

 

“You may be right.” He allowed, leaning back on the bed to stare at the ceiling.

 

He’d miss Adaar. He’d miss Jarvia and Aclassi and even Fenris. But there were people just like them in the Imperium, suffering and out of sight.

 

Gods his life was a mess.

 

“You know you’d be able to come back here any time right?” Adaar said. “If it got too much, or it wasn’t working, or someone found out.”

 

“Yes.” Dorian mumbled.

 

“Have you decided who you’re gonna ask?”

 

“Ask what?” Dorian said tiredly.

 

“To come with you.”

 

Dorian bolted upright and he must have looked surprised at the very idea because Adaar gave him a look straight out of Solas’ repertoire. The one that strongly suggested he was being an imbecile and that Solas was searching for a polite way to tell him so.

 

“I-” Dorian began.

 

“That little human guy with the maul, he’s Tevene isn’t he? He’d probably do it. And I don’t think you’d even need to ask T’la.” Adaar mused. “The dwarves would take a bit of persuading but the Imperium is still the biggest buyer of lyrium and they get most of their supply from Orzammar. So you could probably swing it by telling them it’s like stabbing the King in the coin purse. And Nightingale’s completely head over heels for Brosca, so if you persuade the dwarves Brosca would probably persuade her for you.”

 

Adaar smiled serenely at him and Dorian chuckled.

 

It really was _remarkable_ how easy it was to forget who taught Adaar sometimes.

 

“Can I come?” Adaar asked, jolting Dorian out of his thoughts.

 

“You _want_ to go to a foreign land built on slavery where you’ll be treated as a novelty entertainment item because of your race?”

 

“Sure.” Adaar replied with another shrug. “Sounds like a holiday.”

 

“A proper answer if you please.”

 

Adaar shuffled his feet and scratched at the base of his horns.

 

“Sounds like you could use some help. And like you said, they’ll think I’m stupid, we can use that, and I’d get their attention and we could use that too.” He paused. “Plus you already taught me Tevene and it beats sitting around here teaching and making potions and waiting for Herah to may be come back.”

 

“I-” Dorian trailed off.

 

They wouldn’t expect Adaar to be a mage either and that- that could also add to the fiction of Dorian Pavus they were building. Taking in and teaching, _civilising,_ a poor Tal-Vashoth, running from the cruelties the Qunari inflicted on mages. And between them-

 

Dorian, Aclassi and Leliana would draw most of the focus, naturally. They could hobnob with the Magisters and perhaps steer them. Having two ‘soporati’ in their brave little band might make the idea of giving the peasantry more rights popular again-

 

Behind them, in sight and out of it, would be Jarvia, the Carta, Fenris: ferrying slaves out of the country, bringing _wolves_ into the fold and causing trouble for the more intractable sections of the Magisterium.

 

And between the two Adaar, large and lumbering and far far cleverer than anyone would ever give him credit for.

 

Dorian smiled and shook his head. Because Adaar was right, he _had_ already decided, quite some time ago.

 

“Would you have trouble pretending to be my apprentice?”

 

“Do I get to ‘accidentally’ set stuff on fire?”

 

“Almost certainly.”

 

Adaar grinned. “I think I can manage.”

 

“Thank you.” Dorian replied, getting to his feet. “Now- I don’t suppose you have any idea where I might find Aclassi at this time of day?”

 

-

 

It was dark by the time he stumbled up to Solas’ room. Their room, if he was being honest. There were no lamps burning but he knew his way across to the bed, stepping around that small table by the door which always seemed to be overflowing with papers.

 

He shrugged out of his clothes and let them fall carelessly to the floor. He crawled under the covers, found Solas’ shape in the dark.

 

Solas stirred.

 

“Are you awake?” Dorian whispered in a breath.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’ve decided-”

 

“-to leave.”

 

“Yes.”

 

He shifted closer, turning slowly into Dorian’s arms. His hand floundered at Dorian’s elbow before finding his shoulder and then-

 

He missed the first time and his kiss landed on Dorian’s chin. But he corrected quickly and then his lips were against Dorian’s soft and almost tentative.

 

“Solas-” He began.

 

“Please-” It came as a murmur at his ear and Dorian-

 

Dorian rolled on to his back when Solas put a gentle pressure on his shoulder and let Solas kiss a maddening trail down his neck.

 

It seemed ludicrous to think he’d ever imagined this could be rough. But he could remember all those months ago, thinking Solas was being gentle, yielding, because it was their first time together or some such nonsense- He’d fantasised about some two-copper romance idea of strength and dominance rather than wonder if Solas simply was gentle.

 

The hands on his chest, his stomach, his thighs were cautious, slow, almost shy. Solas’ lips and tongue traced his collar bones and the muscles of his neck without even a hint of teeth. And when Dorian couldn’t stand soft touches, hesitancy, _tenderness_ any more he caught Solas’ hand and guided it down.

 

He let Solas set the pace, and it was far, far too slow, as if he meant to keep them there for days.

 

He missed being able to see, the dark was all distracting shadows. He shut his eyes and imagined the expression on Solas’ face, his naked chest and the way it sometimes flushed pink. It wasn’t quite enough. So Dorian felt his way along Solas’s side in the dark, down to his hip, across it until he could grip Solas’ cock and hear him let out a stuttering gasp.

 

He reached for Solas’ shoulder and drew him in, closer, until they were breathing the same air. He listened to Solas’ sighs and planted kisses wherever he could reach, his lips, his throat, his cheeks-

 

They finished moments from each other, Dorian panting and shaking, Solas gasping Dorian’s name.

 

For a while they held each other, until it started to become uncomfortable. Solas conjured a light and they cleaned themselves in relative silence.

 

“Promise me something?” Solas asked before he let the light fade.

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t wait for me.”

 

Dorian sighed. “Amatus I-”

 

“Don’t waste the time you have. Please.”

 

He looked so…so earnest about it. Dorian took his hand.

 

“What about you?”

 

“I’ll wait.”

 

“Solas-”

 

“Promise me. Please.”

 

Dorian sighed again. “You told me once you wanted me to have more than hope-”

 

He turned Solas’ hand over in his and brought it to his lips. Kissed the knuckles one by one.

 

“I love you. Are you asking me this because you think I don’t?”

 

“No.” Solas replied quietly. “But it may be years, decades, until we see each other again and I don’t want you to be alone.”

 

“Well,” Dorian said, turning Solas’ hand over again, exposing his palm. “Considering that a small Carta, two ex-Imperial citizens, an Orlessian and your student have all offered to accompany me I certainly won’t be alone.”

 

He kissed the center of Solas’ palm and Solas looked away.

 

“I hope to cause some change for the better in my homeland, and however long that takes I hope I may one day return here.”

 

“I would like that.” Solas murmured. “But I would not ask you to spend the rest of your life waiting for that day.”

 

“And I don’t want to put you aside as though this was meaningless.” He sighed. “Will I see you in the Fade?”

 

“Would you like to?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then I suppose we’ll discuss this further.”

 

Solas sank into the bed beside him and the light finally faded.

 

There would be a great deal to do in the next few days.

 

He’d need to pack and he’d also need to decide what was likely to be judged a ‘realistic’ thing for a man telling this story of Dorian Pavus to be carrying. He’d need to be sure the others were careful of that as well. They’d need a certain worn, raggedness and they’d likely need to travel on foot-

 

He’d have to school Adaar in at least _some_ of the Imperial style of magic and he’d need to know more about this…memory altering ritual Solas had proposed. He’d have to decide if he wanted to speak to his father again and- no, he _would_ speak to him again. If nothing else he might be able to persuade him this was right.

 

He’d need to talk to Fenris properly and plan out how they might operate without stepping on each other’s toes.

 

Solas settled against him with a small sigh, threw an arm over Dorian’s chest and Dorian wondered how he’d ever sleep alone again.

 

For a moment it made him feel cold inside.

 

But everything he’d said to Solas was true: he would, perhaps if the Gods were willing, be able to guide his country towards a new, better path. And once he had-

 

Weisshaupt would still be there and Fen’Harel would still be waiting.

 

Dorian found his hand in the dark and held it until he fell asleep.

 

 

Epilogue: In which Dorian dreams

 

He dreamed he was on one of the caravans trundling away from Weisshaupt and only really realised the absurdity of it when a great black wolf loped up and sat beside him.

 

Dorian chuckled. “We haven’t even reached the boarder yet.” He protested and Solas changed back into himself and made a face.

 

If they’d had a conversation then Dorian at least couldn’t remember the rest of it.

 

-

 

When they finally reached the Imperium Dorian took an interest in astrology. Just enough to know, roughly, when it might be getting dark in the Anderfels, when he could reasonably expect Solas to be asleep.

 

And he mightn’t remember or he might not find the Dread Wolf in the Fade, but there was a thrill to it anyway which made their strange, stolen moments all the sweeter.

 

As if their entire love affair was playing out under the Archon’s nose.

 

He told Solas that once, in a high-ceilinged ruined place that might have been a dream of a temple or a forest.

 

“You should try not to think about him here.” Solas warned, with a small smile. “Or we’ll both end up drawing demons.”

 

Dorian sighed. “Oh well I suppose you’ll _have_ to kiss me then, otherwise who knows where my sordid, politics-addled mind will wander off t-mmph!”

 

For some reason he usually woke up smiling.


End file.
